


An Alternative Solution

by JennStar



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BDSM, Bondage and Discipline, Captivity, Clothing Kink, Consensual Kink, Dirty Talk, Dreams vs. Reality, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Fear, John has a fetish or two, Longing, Objectification, Oral Sex, Power Exchange, Psychological Drama, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sensuality, So does Juliana, Those pesky films, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2019-11-05 18:19:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 65,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17923913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennStar/pseuds/JennStar
Summary: Abandoned by his wife just prior to the Jahr Null celebrations, John Smith struggles with what it means to be a Nazi. At the same time, he is obliged to deal with Juliana Crain, both personally and professionally.  In this fic, Juliana never gets to travel and remains at the mercy of her very agitated captor. Departs from canon after Helen's phone call. Contains very graphic sexual elements and probably some cursing thrown in here and there. John loses the jacket. And possibly his mind.





	1. The Man at the Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NYC is burning and Helen isn't coming back. John Smith holes up in his penthouse, alone. But not for long.

### Chapter Text

_“ **He who controls others may be powerful,**_

_**but he who has mastered himself is mightier still.”** _

**– Lao Tzu**

 

John Smith stood staring blankly at the rampant chaos below through his penthouse window. His fingers balled into fists within his trouser pockets, wanting nothing more than to release them, to punch a hole through the damned impenetrable glass.

His seemingly impenetrable façade was beginning to dissolve.

The phone ringing was a blissful interruption.

John hoped it was Helen, who had just rung not an hour earlier. He hoped that she, who decided to desert him on a whim, taking their young daughters along for the ride to who knows where, had a change of heart and was turning the car around. That Helen absconded to protect their daughters from genetic testing he could understand, however her main justification was much less transparent.

It was his fault he had risen through the ranks too quickly, had proven himself all too worthy of his recently elevated status. Simply put, he was so talented, there was nowhere else to go but up.

Every carefully orchestrated scheme he devised to keep his family secure had fallen apart. John Smith had no idea what he would do without them. Who was he supposed to fight for now?

The person on the other end of the line was not his wife, either. The call was to notify him that a special visitor had just arrived.

He straightened his slumped over spine to his full six feet, a rigid posture aligning as each vertebrae stacked atop the other in a regimental fashion. His lips held in a grim line for several days, John let all warmth drain from his irises and waited next to the elevator. He still had trouble getting used to not having a door to unlock. It dinged and in strode an armed guard, standing erect and saluting the reluctant Reichsmarschall, while another came forward, gruffly pushing someone ahead of him: a slight-framed prisoner steaming with subdued ire.

Without question, this was Juliana Crain.

 

She was garbed in the regulation blue-grey prison jumpsuit; handcuffed, her long, loosened braid trailing over one shoulder. Stray brunette hairs slashed across her face like the fresh cuts that marred its surface. Those injuries were all her fault. She had committed no minor offence to earn them.

Her day (or in this case, night) of reckoning had been a long time coming, and they both knew it.

The notion of a hunter chasing a hare flitted through his mind. In a fictional world he could play the perpetually frustrated Elmer Fudd to the elusive Resistance angel’s Bugs Bunny, characters which were part of an absurd cartoon reel confiscated and destroyed years before.

A quiet laugh threatened to emerge, but he checked himself by biting his cheek so hard it threatened to bleed. He would display nothing short of the icy emptiness that had successfully scattered so many once ethically empowered individuals into submission.

John, finger on the elevator button, eyed his nemesis up and down and wordlessly nodded to the guards, who Seig Heiled to him and swiftly disappeared. He idly ran his fingers through his short curls, rolling his head in a circle, prolonging his captive’s trepidation.

The feeling – this fear of the unknown that she must be accustomed to by now – radiated from her as much as her goodness, a trait that simultaneously annoyed and unnerved him. For as exulted as John was, he was only human and could thus be affected enough to allow doubt to seep in.

He would never forget standing aboard that massive, garishly lit ship as fighter jets shot at the Statue of Liberty. He tried to mask his disgust and sorrow as the great lady crumpled before him amidst the misguided children’s chanting, fireworks bursting to the ironic “Ode to Joy,” and Himmler’s huge, sickening grin and maniacal glee. He recalled the words of command he himself spoke that started it all.

 _No._  He would not give into self-loathing tonight. 

It was decided once he knew Helen and the girls were lost to him. He needed to vent. But he was afraid to be alone with himself. He also had to deal with his prisoner - on his own terms.

John always knew he could be a truly cold bastard. Therefore he was unfazed when the gears in his mind twisted into something sinister. He was a faithful husband, though he had been tempted several times. But there was one woman who made such a strong impression on him, he became almost fixated. He would dream of her involuntarily while cuddling Helen in the night. Her elusiveness tormented him; she got under his skin.

Perhaps if he got her out of his system, he wouldn't hate himself as much as he did.

 

As he turned towards Juliana she twisted her head away, nearly smacking him in the face with her errant, tangled braid.

He stepped forwards and gripped her by the handcuffs, not harshly, but hardly gently. Pinning his eyes to hers, he was taken aback by the ferocity glaring back at him. He narrowed crystalline green eyes and tugged her closer, cocking his dark eyebrow in satisfaction upon hearing her emit a soft gasp. Her thick lashes were flecked with moisture as she blinked rapidly, breaths heaving through her nostrils like a bull gearing up to break loose.

But that wasn’t going to happen tonight.

“Welcome to my home, Miss Crain. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

Juliana kept her head down and raised her eyes to his, borne with the beautiful but treacherous defiance that could rattle a lesser man’s bones.  
  
“Go to hell,” she half whispered, half growled. 

Finally, John had cause to smile and allowed his lips to curl dispassionately. He was really going to enjoy this. He had quite a fun evening planned out for her.

“You first, Miss Crain. I insist.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be a one-shot, but by popular demand it will be at least, oh 5 or 6 chapters? John has a long night planned, after all. We wouldn't want to rush him.


	2. Hospitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wants Juliana to feel at right at home.

John had released her only to shed his coat and discard his silver cross and tie, leaving his suspenders on over a crisp white shirt. He slowly slid his fingers beneath the tight, stretchy fabric of the suspenders. Juliana watched transfixed as he trailed his thumbs lower and lower…  
  
“Come here, Juliana.”

She didn’t move. He fixed her with his hollow, arctic eyes.  
  
“When I tell you to come, you will obey. You will do whatever I tell you to do. Or else, your friend…Mr. Abendsen… _Abe_ as I’ve now discovered…will have to face the consequences. I have no qualms about calling in the order to inflict a special kind of torment on him. Perhaps I’ll have him shot in that gibberish-spewing mouth of his.”  
  
Juliana shuddered and inched forward like skittish a doe.

“That’s a good girl. But please, I can’t keep this up all night. And I bet you’re a bit tired, am I right?’

She said nothing.

He strode up to her and grasped her by the collar, breathing into her neck. “Answer me.”

 _Oh, I see how it is,_ she thought.

“Yes, I'm rather...tired.”

He then took her by the shoulders, and guided her to the dining room table, where he pulled out a chair and shoved her down. If not for the cushion, the abrupt contact might have bruised her.

He went to the kitchen and returned with a chilled bottle of Dornfelder and a glass. She stared straight ahead as he effortlessly tore off the cork and poured her a generous amount of the German red wine. He swirled it and lifted it to his nose and inhaled. He pushed the glass in front of Juliana’s face and she pulled away in disgust.

“Don't you approve of the wine, Juliana?”

When she failed to budge, he grasped her by the back of the head and brought the glass just under her nose. “You don't approve?”

She shook her head no.

“That’s too bad, because you don’t have a choice in the matter.”

He yanked her chin up and brought the glass to her mouth. “Drink.”

She reluctantly opened her mouth, but not enough to accommodate all of the dry, sweet liquid. It dribbled down her lips, onto the collar of her jumpsuit.

John became inpatient. “Drink it all, damn it,” he demanded. “I don’t care where it lands,” he added, as droplets fell onto the pristine gleaming tabletop.

Juliana took immense gulps just to get it over with. All she could think about was her friends and her mission to travel. If only she could train herself to become robotic, she could disassociate enough from the impossible situation she was caught in.

She would become whatever he wanted and when he least expected it, she would be gone. She would let him have his fun and then have the last laugh in the end.

After the last of the wine had been drained, he pulled the glass away. One hand remained tangled in her hair, while the other moved slowly down her throat and found her pulse points, squeezing ever so carefully. By pure reflex she jumped, and he bent over, lowering his mouth to her ear.

“Oh Miss Crain, you’ve stained your uniform.” He grinned maliciously.

“It’s fine.”

He tightened his hold on her hair, showing her scalp no mercy.  
  
“I tell you, it’s not _fine_. In fact, I think you’re a bit too grungy for my tastes.”

She glared at his comment and was frustrated that he held her head in such a way she was a unable to meet his eyes.

“Tell me, Miss Crain…have you soiled yourself?” He slid his hand from her throat to her chest.

The implication came across as much more humiliating than the situation called for; he treated her like a child. Only a little wine escaped from her chin and two thin pale burgundy lines marred the collar of her rough jumpsuit. Otherwise, why use that particular phrase?

He gently released one button, then two. When she didn’t answer, he lightly bit down on her collarbone, emitting a sharp cry from her.

“Miss Crain,” he crooned, against her ear, “Are you in agreement?”

She thought about Hawthorne with no hesitation.  
  
“Yes, I have soiled myself.”

“Yes, what?” He looked up at her expectantly, with raised eyebrows.

Her mind was cloudy, so cloudy. “Erm, yes…Sir?”

He sunk his perfect white teeth into the cartilage of her ear.

“Ow!”

“Oh, you know who I am…”  
  
“Yes…Reichsmarschall?” All confidence had eluded her at this point. She was petrified by his proximity to her.  
  
“Not tonight.” Her heart thudded beneath her small breasts hidden inside a thin white cotton bra. “Say it with me...” he paused, poring over her incredulous eyes. “...Yes, John.”

“Yes, John, I have soiled myself.”

He smiled and pulled her up. “You certainly have.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. For a moment Juliana felt elation as he slid the key into the lock and slipped off the shackles. They clattered when they hit the table.

She immediately rubbed at her wrists, looking down at the tiles of the floor for some semblance of calm. But he grabbed her arm and led her down the narrow hallway, boots stamping their mark over his territory.

 

At the very end of the hallway, he held her by the back of her jumper and knocked. A conventionally pretty woman in her 20s with black hair and milky skin answered. She was clad in a maid’s uniform, hands folded before her wearing a gentle smile.

_What in the world?_

“Ah, Miss Crain. Meet Meghan, my maid Bridget’s _discreet_ cousin. She will be taking special care of you this evening to prepare you for the…festivities.” He had an awful gleam in his eyes.

Juliana’s eyes widened as she took in the large claw footed bathtub filled to the brim with bubbles. The room was overwhelmingly imbued with some sort of warm, exotic perfume…vanilla…patchouli? It was very inviting, she had to admit. But this was no romantic gesture.

John pushed her into the room as Meghan held the door open.

“Scrub up well. You smell like a gutter rat. I want you clean – every, every part of you.” His eyes glowed a lush, dangerous forest in the candlelight.  
  
“ _Every_ part, John?” she dared to interject.

“Everything,” he said, dragging out the syllables as effortlessly as he exhaled cigarette smoke.

She gulped.

“Don’t be shy. Meghan knows what to do, don’t you?”  
  
The maid acquiesced with a practiced nod.

“There you go. Nothing to fear.”  
  
And yet, as much as Juliana's dirty body screamed for soap, she remained suspicious.

John nodded his head toward a large black shopping bag situated on the vanity table. “When you’re done, Megan will help you into your new clothes.”  
  
He bought her clothes, too? This was getting to be so strange.

He stepped in and gripped her chin once more. “What do you say for my generosity, Juliana?” he rasped. Just then she noticed his own smell. As heady as his eyes: smoke; stress sweat; resin.

“Thank you, John.” 

_Thank you for the soothing bath that may just help me focus my mind enough get me the fuck out of here._

“I’ll give you half an hour. If you’re not ready by then, I’ll come and fetch you myself.” He folded his arms and leaned against the doorway. “And believe me, we wouldn’t want that to happen.”

Juliana knew his casual demeanor to be a ruse – she always saw right through him.

“I’ll be ready, John. I promise,” she replied staring at her raw, reddened wrists.  
  
“I very much look forward to it,” he replied with a disturbing lilt to his voice. And he shut the door, leaving Juliana alone with the maid.

God knows if she could trust her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully by now you catch the gist of where my story is going. Incidentally, I came up with several new plot bunnies in the bathtub. But will Juliana be able to use her bath to her advantage?


	3. Totter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things just take some getting used to.

However kindly and well-meaning Meghan was, it was nonetheless an entirely degrading experience.

After being stripped naked, Juliana was led to the steaming bath. As she was a little unsteady due to the wine, not to mention her electroshock treatment that morning, she let Meghan carefully guide her into the deep gilded porcelain tub, her small hands wrapped around Juliana's slender waist.

She tentatively sunk into the water, judging it to be the ideal temperature. Minutes later, Juliana watched each fluffy pile of bubbles float beyond her, along with any thoughts of her disastrous spy mission in the Poconos.

The warmth cocooned her weary limbs and, frustratingly, she began to luxuriate in the experience of having her hair scrubbed and massaged with high-end shampoo. After all, who knew when she would ever get to experience such _generosity_ again?

Regardless, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The fragrance reminded her vaguely of what a courtesan might wear in ancient Egypt. She concentrated on the stillness of the water, the weightlessness of her limbs. She leaned her head back as Meghan started to rinse away the suds.

How could this possibly be construed as hell?

Her mind started to drift further and further away from reality as soothing water was poured over her head repeatedly. She was getting close, so close to finding a way out of the dungeon known as the GNR.

Incessant knocking broke through her reverie, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“I hope you haven’t drowned in there, Miss Crain.” The sarcasm was dreadful under the circumstances. “You have ten minutes, or else I’m going to come in there and finish the job.”

When no further comment was made, Juliana reached for the thick bar of triple-milled soap. “It’s ok, I can manage from here.”

“Of course,” Meghan replied perkily.

Juliana hurriedly lathered every part of herself, but against his 'rules' omitted her privates in favor of plain, fresh water from the tap. Her wrists were slightly tender and whatever perfumed the water irritated the marks, but she pushed through the pain and gingerly rose out of the tub. Meghan immediately helped her step out and patted her dry with a plush towel of the highest quality as Juliana wrung out her mass of hair.

Next came the scented oils, which were rubbed into her skin with deft precision, avoiding her most sensitive areas. When the maid placed her hands atop her rear, Juliana squirmed at the intrusion.

“Sorry,” the young maid whispered, kneading the oil in. Was she supposed to play Cleopatra today?

Meghan wasn’t finished. Perfume was spritzed all over her skin, to intensify the sweet yet potent musk. This was not something Juliana would usually wear. She favored subtle floral fragrances such as lavender or something light and fresh. Due to her relative poverty as of late, she now wore nothing at all.

She began to pin her damp hair atop her head, but Meghan stopped her.

“Your hair must be worn down in a braid, as before. Reichsmarschall Smith’s orders.” The braid was redone and secured with a silky black ribbon.

Finally, the contents of the bag were revealed. Juliana’s crystal blue eyes bulged out of her head. She knew not to question just how he managed to procure such items at this time of night (unless he had them hidden away already, though that was highly unlikely). She rolled her eyes and began to remove the contents.

John Smith was quite the pervert.

After being successfully trussed up, the maid told her to wait and returned quickly with another box. Juliana’s jaw dropped when she peeled back the black and gold striped tissue paper. Even her legs started to quake.

In addition, John was undoubtedly a sadist. What else could one expect from the head of the Greater Nazi Reich of North America?

Through with her duties, Meghan had Juliana sit at the vanity table as she opened the door, leaving it slightly ajar. Low conversation, soft and gruff voices, words undecipherable.

“Thank you. Be assured you will be highly compensated.” The unmistakable rasp of her captor.

“It was a pleasure, sir.” The elevator dinged once more.

She was alone again. With him. And his deranged plans, whatever they were.

 

There was no time to collect her thoughts, nor even to marvel at the devilish creation she was attired in as the bathroom door was suddenly pushed open. But no one was on the other side. But then, footsteps.

“Time for inspection, Miss Crain.”

Juliana gripped the arms of the ornate vanity chair to steady herself. This was going to be so humiliating. She rose and took a small step forward and tottered. She held onto the vanity and straightened her back and literally pushed herself toward the door.

“Miss Crain?” He sounded impatient as always. What did this insane man want from her?

She peeked out and, noticing his eyes widen, immediately lowered hers to her body. Whatever was going to happen, she wanted to get it over with. Right now, luck was eluding her.

John stood with his hands in his both pockets once more, head cocked to the side as he let out a low whistle. His eyebrows quirked up, betraying his excitement. In all his fantasies, nothing could have prepared him for this stunning vision. He blinked a couple times and knit his brows together.

“Why are you cowering in the doorway?” When he received no response, he smirked a little and pointed at her shoes. He sniffed out a laugh. “I could see why those might be problematic.”

Juliana cringed.

Of course she was having trouble with the 5-inch black spiked stilettos. They had rounded toes, a slight platform, and were adorned with a tiny bow in the center. She was used to wearing flats or low-heeled shoes, another fact he had long filed away in that vindictive part of his brain that was always poised to catch her.

Too late, she realized the full extent of his plans.

He turned his palm over and crooked his index finger toward him.

“Walk towards me, Miss Crain. Stand right over here,” he pointed.

She placed a tentative foot on the ground and willed herself not to fall. The floor proved to be slightly slippery. But she managed to move about two feet away from the door. She stood with her arms at her sides, a blush of shame starting to creep across her face and down her chest.

John leisurely perused her taut body from all sides, boots tapping against the tiles with every stoic turn. “Yes, I knew you would do this justice. Better than I could have ever imagined...” he trailed off.

The outfit was nothing short of exquisite, however it was leagues away from the skirt, blouse and sensible shoes she had expected. Instead she had been garbed in a low-cut bra made of dusky blue satin, covered with black lace. The cut was so low it nearly exposed her nipples; it certainly grazed them enough.

There were also matching panties, which exposed half of her small, perky rear, as well as a garter belt and black fishnet stockings. She also wore a black leather choker around her neck. It had a strange metal piece dangling off of it, but Juliana paid no attention to that as she concentrated on not falling and twisting an ankle.

Now positioned directly in front of her, John moved incrementally closer and caressed her arms, up and down, up and down, lightly scratching the surface of her slick skin. His eager fingertips stroked over her exposed navel in a figure 8 pattern and started to trail lower.

Juliana bit her lip at the inevitable intrusion. He licked his lips and grinned when his roving hand stopped right above her mound. His other hand rose to her neck, deftly slipping two fingers inside the choker and tugging her head forward, almost causing her to lose her balance entirely.

Tiger-like eyes locked into hers, absorbing the fear and confusion swirling inside them. It energized him.

Juliana couldn't help but squeeze her other lips together, tightly. She opened her mouth in wonder - at her body's admission of defeat.

She was so mesmerized that she barely noticed him attaching a long chain to her choker. Or, rather, her collar. Juliana instinctively began to struggle as a surge of adrenaline pulsed through her, which only made John tighten his hold on the chain. He lifted a finger to her forehead and stroked across the cut. She hissed.

“Ooh, that must hurt,” he teased. "But I can't pretend to care how - or what- you feel, Miss Crain."

She wanted to turn her face away, but she wouldn't put it past him to slap her to keep her in line. Instead she met his eyes whenever possible.

His body mere inches away, Juliana noted that the two top buttons had been released on his shirt; wisps of dark hair peeked through. He wore no undershirt. His particular odor, which was far from unpleasant, almost overwhelmed her – there was a cohesiveness between the blatantly masculine vetiver, smoke, cedar (she had no idea what the hell it was – she only guessed) and the sultry mixture of vanilla and amber slathered all over her own skin.

It felt primal and unwanted.

John Smith read her thoughts entirely. He lowered his head to her ear, placing a light kiss on her onyx-studded earlobe.

“You’re right. We do smell good together. I did that on purpose, you know,” he added in a tantalizing whisper. With that he wrapped his hands around the chain once, twice, turned around on his heel, and marched Juliana down the hallway.

She tottered behind obediently. And planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, things are getting a little intense here. John is indeed a pervert...at least when it comes to our fair rebel, who I must say has no clue what she is being led into. 
> 
> Also, I lied. Definitely more than 4 chapters. Perhaps 7 or 8? 10? We'll see how far John decides to take things. He's really not in the best frame of mind right now. Would you be if you were in his immaculately polished boots?
> 
> And on that vague note, let the "festivities" begin!
> 
> P.S. Here is a link to Juliana's special gift: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/621919029764970416/


	4. Marble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a tease for you.
> 
> But a long one..

John came to an abrupt halt at the end of the hallway and turned.

“I really appreciate your willingness to participate, Miss Crain. Still, you being who you are, someone who has an awful tendency to poke her nose where it shouldn’t belong, must have some questions as to why I brought you here.”

He looked at her directly, betraying nothing except for a slight tic at the corner of his lip. “So, if there’s anything – anything at all you wish to know – now is the time to ask. Because you won’t have another opportunity to do so.”

Juliana stood rubbing her arm nervously. ”What’s that supposed to mean, John? Ober – Oberst – “

“Reichsmarschall of North America, Miss Crain. Supreme commander of the Greater Nazi Reich in the Western Hemisphere." The absurd title rolled across his tongue effortlessly.

“Right. But you didn’t answer my question.”

He tilted his head as if he didn’t hear her. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

She ground down on her teeth. “You didn’t answer my question, John.”

“Ah, well.” He shoved one hand in his pocket and stared at the ground while the other tested the weight of the chain with the other. “You will learn soon enough.”

His eyes darted towards a generic landscape situated on the wall behind her. Just one of many that adorned his new Manhattan abode. Something that would seem more appropriate in a doctor’s office waiting area. His eyes flicked back to her. “Next question.”

She grew more determined. “Why was I removed from my cell?”

“Because, Miss Crain, I’ve had a tedious, exhausting day. Which, granted, is saying something for a man in my position. But more on that later.”

It was aggravating how evasive he was being. Typical Nazi; typical John Smith. All his answers required a follow-up question. She sensed she was running out of time. One subject in particular troubled her, a glaringly obvious one, having very little to do with her current predicament. Or so she thought.

“Where are Helen and the children, John?”

“Not here at the moment,” he replied tersely.

She was tugged forward with a slight tension, the result of John’s grip tightening around the length of chain with enough pressure to turn his knuckles chalk white. He fixed her with a glare and she instinctively stepped back. She could have murdered his dog for all the untapped fury it contained. No more family pet. No family around.

Alone with John Smith. She gulped at her stupidity.

 

In the next instant she found herself pinned between his body and the wall.

The tic was more pronounced and his cheekbones seemed to jut out at her. Smooth, menacing marble. The entryway, the tiles, his face. He blended in with his cold surroundings perfectly. And yet there was flesh and bone anchoring the protrusions to his model-perfect, albeit aging features. Warmth, like any other human.

She had an urge to lift her fingers to his skin to test the realness of it, but she wouldn’t dare. His eyes were, inconceivably, warm-hued, golden green leaves tinged with the first hints of autumn, the whites blindingly bright. The large, hooded orbs bore into hers as if seeking admission somewhere any ordinary Nazi would waltz in without a care.

“You get one more question, Miss Crain. And you’d better make it count.”

She couldn’t disappoint.

“Where’s your soul, John?” she spat. He scoffed and chuckled, shook his head.

“I don’t know how you ever passed the Auxiliary Citizenship Test, Miss Crain. There’s no religion in the Reich! When you die, you’re dead.” He acted as if this were some sort of joke.

“Thomas,” she uttered under her breath, though she never meant his name to be voiced aloud. Nonetheless, John had heard her as if she screamed his name. He pressed her cheek into the wall forcefully. Juliana winced as a sense of foreboding rattled her bones.

It was the first time she truly feared for her life since being prodded through the elevator. She tried to focus on the bronze stallion in her line of vision as he lowered his mouth to her ear.

“Never. Talk. About. My family,” he warned in that corpse-cold manner of his. “They are off-limits for discussion. You are never to mention them again. Never. Do you understand?” She nodded as much as she could.

“Yes. Yes, John.” She wanted to cry and struggled to hold back tears.

“Now,” he growled, placing disturbingly gentle kisses along her hairline, flicking his tongue at the skin beneath her earlobe. He bit down next to one of the onyx studs he bought to match her outfit.

She jumped, imaging he would sink his teeth in as before. John laughed as he recognized her trepidation, kissing down her neck, a hand sliding from her cheek downward. His heavy body molded against her slight frame and her nipples sprung to attention against their own accord. Too sexually attuned for her own good, she tried to push her breasts into his hand when he reached the center of the lacy bra.

But instead of grabbing for the uplifted mounds, he splayed his hand across the center.

He was feeling for her heartbeat. _What was he about?_ She felt him sigh into the join of her neck and shoulder.

“Get down on your knees.”

John released his hold on her and she sank down onto the dark grey marble, more graceful than she had anticipated. She bowed her head in the manner she had grown accustomed to as a subservient white woman in the Japanese Pacific States.

He titled her chin up and stared down at her striking, yet delicate countenance, reveling in the feel of the cleft in her chin. The oddest of features to be attracted to.

“Miss Crain…Juliana. I am not the monster you imagine me to be. And contrary to what you’re likely thinking, I am _not_ going to kill you.”

A breath she hadn’t realized she had held for so many hours came out in a whoosh.

“No, that is not what you’re here for.” He stroked the side of her face. “I believe a smart girl like you would be able to comprehend a suitable alternative punishment for all your misdeeds.” He crouched down to meet her at eye level.

“There are…things, activities I refused to engage in with my wife. I respect her too much. Make no mistake, I am no novice. There were women long before Helen and I got together who would readily satisfy my particular cravings. You see, Miss Crain, I always had it in me to be rather...controlling.”

Juliana felt her thighs quake at every rasping utterance from what she now noticed was a pleasingly soft mouth, which slowly curved into a smirk. But the way in which he had spoken that last word – _controlling_ – had done her in. Her pert nipples stood out more prominently in anticipation of the inevitable. She slowly brought her legs together.

John sensed her intentions and immediately jerked them apart.

He smiled because he was right about her.

 

There was something sacred about his natural dominance. When the world was collapsing around him, especially at this moment when there was no longer anything, or _anyone_ , to anchor himself to, this guiding force was his last resort. And she, Juliana Crain, was to be that temporary anchor. A savior while he was lost at sea, preventing him from drowning in his own despair.

And he would hold onto her through control. Always control. He could not relinquish it. He wouldn’t know how to survive otherwise.

The scenario wasn’t completely unplanned. It played in his mind during lost moments, that record hidden away until a particular mood struck him to sway to the music alone and free.

He loved Helen and always would. But sometimes his dreams did not contain her laugh, her smile, or her body. When they didn’t include Helen, or world domination, or Thomas, or flashbacks of the barbarous acts he committed in Cincinnati, they featured a calmly defiant woman that made him weak with desire – a desire to conquer every part of her.

Her sleek, slender curves made her somehow more dangerous to him. She moved about with a catlike elegance, stark blue feline eyes and dark waves cascading over her shoulders. She was a free spirit he could never quite catch, but in his mind he always did.

He always, always found her and kept her locked away so she could never escape. But when he awoke, he knew she was still out there at large, running from something much bigger than herself. Seeking information about worlds he knew nothing about, until recently. Working in tandem with the Resistance to demolish his carefully constructed way of life.

He was intensely compelled to obliterate the impotence he felt at being unable to protect his family from harm and to stop obsessing about, in Juliana’s own words, his _failure_ to save his poor son from believing in his defectiveness. In John’s eyes he was perfect. In the Reich’s eyes, a “useless eater,” a blight on society.

In the end, a golden boy whose likeness was cemented in the minds and hearts of children who could never imagine a world where having an illness or disability did not always mean a death sentence. The tragedy of the past twenty years or so boiled his blood.

And stirred it.

 

John's left hand held Juliana by the waist while his right wandered about her thigh, gliding upwards, taunting her with the possibility of further exploration, but he never lingered. Massaging the straining muscles of her thigh through the fishnets, he was taken back to nights spent idling the time away at a fancy cabaret nightclub he would often frequent with comrades in Berlin while on official business; the dancers wore them well.

He deliberately chose that particular set of lingerie to make her squirm – and he, as well. His tastes ran darker than what most fine women’s department stores would be able to accommodate. But he had his connections. As for the shoes…well she couldn’t very well run away from him in those now, could she?

He looked up at her and felt a thrill when he saw her lips quivering. It betrayed what was surely transpiring beneath the lacy blue underwear that matched her eyes almost exactly.

Leaning a hairsbreadth away from her mouth, he whispered, “I think a girl like you would really take to becoming a true submissive.” She blinked in wonder, horror. He couldn’t tell. The chain momentarily forgotten, he inched his face closer, an infinitesimal amount. “Mine in particular,” John uttered shamelessly. “Tell me you feel the same.”

Juliana’s mouth betrayed her body, while her mind protested in vain. “Yes, John, I want it.”

He nodded and started to trail his fingers up her forearms, the tiny hairs shooting to attention. “I’m pleased to hear it. " After a pause he added, "I do also have a penchant for pet names.”

Her eyes widened. He was truly, truly a pervert of the first order.

“Some I prefer more than others,” he continued, cock twitching at the very idea of his dreams unfolding into reality, at the worst possible moment in his broken life. “Seeing as tonight is a special occasion, I think it’s fitting that you choose.” His teeth grazed her bare shoulder lightly. “It’s the only choice you’ve got. You have ten seconds, or else…Mr. Abendsen…”

His firm lips traversed the line of her neck, kissing and nipping. “Hurry, hurry, Miss Crain.” He suckled at her earlobe as if it were a ripe nipple.

Her mind went instantly blank. “Slut. I want to be your slut, John.” She felt him smile against her skin, a wide smile with teeth. 

“Good choice,” he growled into her ear with blatant approval. She felt him fumble with the choker. Blissfully, he had released the chain. Perhaps this would not turn out to be such an ordeal after all. She began to rise. He deftly wrapped his large hand around her still wet strands and shoved her back down to the floor. She landed on her palms with a distinct smack.

“Uh uh. Down on all fours,” he ordered gruffly and folded his arms across his chest. “Now crawl to me, you conniving little slut.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was anxious to write this at first. But in the end, I didn't care. As David Bowie once quipped, a creative person is allowed to be selfish. And though he's no artist (merely a muse), John Smith is being entirely selfish. He's starting to make those hot, yet disturbing dreams of his a reality. And Juliana's getting a little sidetracked. 
> 
> I would apologize for all the shameless teasing going on in this chapter, but I won't. And neither will John. But don't you worry, your patience will be rewarded.
> 
> Eventually.


	5. Use Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juliana learns all about usefulness from ever resourceful John. And other things. NSFW, for profanities. 
> 
> And other things.

Her stomach fell just as surely as her palms hit the ground with a thud. The suddenness of the order astounded her. And no less, the words.

He had removed her leash, yet it was clear she was still to act as a pet of sorts.

Juliana’s eyes burned as she stared up at John, letting herself absorb the words of her tormentor, who gazed upon her with a completely inscrutable expression.

As one of the only lights left on in the apartment was next to the elevator, John's form appeared half shrouded. A figure split down the middle – _bright_ , with harsh, yet distinct edges, or _dark_ , with shards of sparkling moonlight breaking through the gloom. 

She desperately wanted to defy him, to tell him no. But she wouldn’t be able to handle the combined weight of guilt and poisonous regret if anything befell her dear friend because of her persistent vendetta against the man currently in front of her, mocking her with raised eyebrows.

John was a truly depraved individual.

Juliana felt sorry for Helen, wherever she was. Her husband was obviously committing adultery by kissing and caressing her; sexual assault for touching her against her will; physical assault for tugging on her hair, biting her ear and tightening his hand around her neck; false imprisonment for her captivity. Were John Smith an ordinary man, he would have been evaporated by now. 

But John Smith was not an ordinary man. 

At least he promised not to kill her. But this wouldn’t be the first time he lied. For instance, he led Joe to believe Juliana was dead, when in reality she was biding her time as a housewife in training in the Reich. 

She peered at the fresh wound on top of her hand, now shielded by two thin bandages. She was surprised John hadn’t poured lye all over it, as well as the rest of her battle marks.

He might not snuff out her life, but what was preventing him from inflicting horrific levels of pain and potential disfigurement upon her? Psychologically tormenting her until she suffered a mental breakdown? She wondered what other devious implements he had stocked away in the home he shared with his family.

She didn’t hesitate. One palm before the other, and so on.

 

John had his hands shoved in his pockets once again, fiddling with the lining. He backed up casually, knowing every inch of his new home already. Not that it was difficult to get around. So many right angles.

He couldn’t believe the words that just tumbled out of his mouth. Demanding that Juliana Crain crawl to him was anything but premeditated. But when he felt her flesh under his fingers, soft skin beneath garments he knew she’d never be able to afford – or find – he wanted to claim her in the most animal way, as he did in his dreams. 

And now she was here, his for the evening. Beyond that…well, John hadn’t planned that far ahead. He was not thinking clearly and hadn’t been since viewing that film featuring Thomas.

Thomas, a happy, carefree teenager. Alive. Himself, jovial and spontaneous. The reel's existence scrambled his brain. 

It just didn't make any sense.

Cigarettes had not calmed the tremors in his heart. It was right that he ride out the nightmares in his study because Helen would never be able to sleep otherwise. And one of them had to be a fully functioning parent.

Helen. Jennifer. Amy. Jahr fucking Null. The dismantling of New York, his family, his life, all at once. He was a prisoner to a manipulative regime; through and through, a slave to his blindly unwavering ambition that got him nowhere but a lonely penthouse with a sanctimonious convict for company.

But... he adored the look of Juliana on her knees, slinking towards him like a pretty koi fish with her glowing, glistening skin. He caught a sigh in the back of his throat drinking in her lithe muscles, slightly golden skin, narrow hips swaying, that fine little ass barely covered.

As Juliana moved, she felt the pull of the satin garters, the coolness of the tiles rising up to meet her exposed belly. Her braid clung to one side of her cheek.

“Look at me, nothing else,” he said with quick shake of his head and he felt a jolt in his gut.

Warm aftershocks trickled downward, teasing his athletic thighs and the space in between. John willed the tent in his trousers to recede by imagining anything dreadfully bland: the pile of paperwork stacked on his desk; cornflakes; celery. He idly clasped his hands in front of his growing fascination with her.

“You know, being my...slut…has tremendous advantages, namely the opportunity to serve the highest ranking Nazi official in the entire continent. There’s some real bragging rights in there, I assure you.”

That pencil-cracking smirk.

Bile rose. She nearly paused to rake her short nails across the tiles in pure rage. It must have shown on her face because John stopped dead in his tracks, staring down at her. Specifically, at how her braid faintly swayed against her left breast after she stilled.

“Having second thoughts? They should have crossed your mind after you escaped from the Reich, then eluded the Kempeitai." He paused and fixed her with such a glower. “You _murdered_ Joe Blake." 

She sucked in a breath. She did indeed kill him. But it wasn’t like that.

After encountering a Reich-recycled version of Joe, she made the split second decision as soon as she learned she was in danger. The same could be said of the time she killed Trudy's father.

John continued, “You killed at least half a dozen guards in both the GNR and JPS, and then you spied on a top-secret Reich experiment.”

Her eyes couldn’t help but drift to the golden eagle, wings spread in warning welcome to what had to be one of hell’s entryways.

 

John's boots rapidly descended upon her. Juliana swiveled her eyes down.

“That’s right, eyes up front,” added an increasingly agitated John. “Don’t ever forget that.”  He tilted her chin up. “What do you have to say to me, slut?”

“Forgive me, John,” she responded hopefully.

“There is no religion -”

“I apologize, John.”

“For…?”

“I apologize for attempting to decipher just what sort of hideous creature is hanging directly above me right now, John.”

He felt his skin crawl a little. So, she had acknowledged _it_. A smug banner any interior decorator worth their salt would describe as tastefully boisterous. Juliana no doubt despised it – but she didn’t have to live with its watchful, beady eyes, day in and day out.

He unquestionably hated the miniature monstrosity more than she did.

Looking down at her hands delicately resting upon the floor, the poised arch of her back, her clawed up face, John allowed the most primal, depraved urges to overthrow rationality.

Deep brown lashes whipped wing-like while penetrating eyes devoured her nubile body – as if it kept locked away the last dewdrop of cum in the entire multiverse.

“I did wonder what you might have thought of the décor. Not up to your standards, I take it?” He laughed menacingly. “Sluts are not supposed to have standards. They fuck anyone and anything. They do.” He nodded slightly.

The smooth intensity in those vulgar words startled her immensely.

A few strands of hair chose that exact moment to flop down over her eye. She tried to blow them away discretely, but that only triggered more fickle pieces to fall out of formation like wispy dominoes.

John leaned close to her face. “Sluts have such messy hair.” Her eyes reminded him of cut Pacific sea glass. Pondering their exact hue, he gathered each strand into a single lock that he glided through the tips of his thumb and forefinger, twirling it at the end and tucking it securely behind her ear.

“See? No standards. You’re going to make a wonderful plaything,” he teased, stroking her plump red lips with two fingers from top to bottom. His thumb gently tugged on her lower lip.

“But first, crawl.” Sweet cinnamon and cigarettes wafted against her mouth. 

Never once did they break eye contact with each other - it was especially challenging to tear one's eyes away from John's sultrily saturated depths. An exercise in futility, as Juliana discovered.

She urged herself to imagine him as a serpent, a demon, a goblin. But nothing could prevent the evidence of her lust from sliding onto the cotton gusset of her panties.

After a short four meters, she entered the living room, sparse and utilitarian compared to the Smith’s Long Island home, with its well-tread staircase, inviting, plush furniture and harmonious hedges. John stopped and pointed to an area on the carpet with indentations where the small coffee table used to be.

The towering GNR Headquarters played voyeur from a distance.

Her ears perked up and tuned into the background noise. Sirens, shouting. Gunfire?

 

“Right here – do not go any further,” John broke in.

Heaven was when her sore knees traded hard for soft, nestled in the yarn of an area rug. She propelled herself forwards eagerly until he yelled at her to stop. The abandoned coffee table and some stiff-backed arm chairs had been hastily shoved to the side.

John faced the windows and noted the side table with all the favorite family photos. He turned them over slowly, saving Thomas’ for last. He held it while staring at the fires burning under the watchful eyes of the swastika of the GNR headquarters, lit like a permanent warning beacon. He shuddered as he took one last look at his boy’s photo and turned the pewter frame face down.

Placing his hands behind his back he allowed the unresolved rage and fear to meld inside until they pushed him even taller. 

“Do you recall how I told you earlier that your usefulness was about to run out?”

She didn’t respond.

“Well, slut?”

“Yes, John. I recall,” she replied with robotic haste.

Though his footsteps were muffled by the carpet, the impeccably shined boots were the stuff of many a nightmare for Juliana. They stopped beside her. Her braid was yanked back forcefully but not enough to pull at her scalp unduly.

“This here is quite useful.”

John wound the twisted section around his palm three times, marveling at how it had gotten so very long since they last met, some six months ago. His lips lingered over the wet tip of the braid, the ebony satin ribbon. He inhaled; there was the faintest hint of coconut. He dropped her hair, letting his left hand drift over her spine.

"You may be of some great use to me yet.”

His fingers traced her terrible raised scars. Suddenly, he pulled her up by the hips and tiled her tailbone such that her spine lay perfectly flat. All her seductive curvatures ironed out for a reeducation of sorts.

“Bow your head. Keep your back perfectly straight. Look down at the carpet. Don’t let me see you taking your eyes off of it.” He barked out the orders with military precision.

Juliana yelped at the feel of something round and rather cold being placed below her shoulder blades. John leaned over and a familiar gurgling drifted to her ears. He carefully poured the aromatic Dornfelder into the crystal wine glass, stopping a little higher than halfway.

“Remain still.” She shivered. 

“Don’t let it tip over now. I won’t tolerate any spills on this rug.” He came up to her ear. “You also run the risk of ruining that trampy outfit of yours.”

He slipped a finger beneath one of the bra straps. Fearing he would snap it, Juliana squeezed her abdominal muscles tight, focusing on the task at hand.

 

Her only hope of making it through, though it went against her value system entirely, was to submit willingly and completely to the Reichsmarschall. Life in the Japanese Pacific States had taught her well. Thankfully, this man would never understand to what extent her strict Aikido lessons had prepared her for fights against unyielding opponents.

John’s boots were very close to her face. She could tell by the overpowering aroma of leather even if she didn’t see them standing guard out of the corner of her eye. The scent was not unpleasant.

There was something about this prolonged punishment, having to keep absolutely still while posing as a low table, eyes trained on the ostentatious black, red and tan floral rug, that caused a familiar pulsating sensation around her clit.

The boots strode away; their indescribable ambient scent taunting her.

He returned ten minutes later, after having made a call to check in on Himmler’s status. He was in a pensive mood.

"Move yourself a few inches to the right.”

She did as instructed. John sunk to his knees behind her, reaching out to caress a frilled panty leg. Juliana went to turn her head to see what he intended.

“What did I say about ‘eyes up front’?” He flicked at her earlobe. “This is for _my_ eyes only,” he rasped. “If you can’t help peeking, I have a remedy for that.”

He proceeded to run his hands down the back seam of the stockings as he had longed to do for so long.

John licked and kissed the sweet-scented skin behind her thighs. Cupping her firm, round cheeks, barely larger than his hands; tightening his hold as he lowered his face to take in her essence. Grasping her legs, he nudged his nose along her slit, inhaling with pleasure.

She bucked as only a statue could.

John finally removed the glass, but Juliana’s self-satisfaction was once again replaced by degradation after he reached under and passed the pads of his fingers over a nipple before tweaking it. She let out a mild shriek as pain flashed through her.

“Our poor little table slut is afraid to get her sexy legs wet, is that it?  How unfortunate.”

He stood and draped his long frame over the elegant striped silk couch with the wine in his hand, not caring if any of it splattered anywhere (she was another matter altogether).

“I’ll have her dripping in no time,’’ he muttered into the wine glass as he unceremoniously rested his feet on Juliana’s back, crossing one boot over the other. The sudden heftiness nearly buckled her spine, but she kept herself level.

Breathing. Counting. Concentrating. 

Having traded the alcohol for another vice, John took a long drag and exhaled thoughtfully.

“Let me tell you about my day, Miss Crain.” He took another slow puff, regarding his cigarette.

"Yes, I think it's best I reserve your other name for truly special activities. Anyway, this morning I made quite the discovery ..."

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such a tame chapter for such a dirty title, no? 
> 
> Don't worry. The next title will be as titillating as filing taxes while watching C-SPAN (unless you're into that sort of thing).
> 
> Intensity cranked way up next time.


	6. My Nazi Valentine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extreme NSFW warning. 
> 
> While I don't condone rape or any type of non-consensual sexual act, this is a story I feel needs to be told a certain way. It's more than John wanting to have a good time and letting out his pent-up frustration on Juliana. 
> 
> If you plow ahead (no pun intended), I guarantee you will be rewarded. It will not always be as dark and twisted, but believe me I'm checking off every single one of those tags.

 

"And now they’re gone. She took my children and ran. From me! Can you imagine?"

John was on his second cigarette and had downed most of the wine.  He raised the glass to his lips and tilted his head back to drain the last inch or so when an incessant buzzing distracted him - the light near the entrance started flickering. Then the various pointless knick knacks adorning the shelving began to rattle.

The wine sloshed around in his glass; a large drop landed right on the hollow of his neck and slid down his chest. Even his legs began to shake. Juliana was as rigid as ever, yet his boots atop her quivered. He removed them immediately and rose from the couch.

As for Juliana, she seemed more than relaxed, considering the physical strain she was under.

It was possible she had entered what those in the kink community referred to as _subspace_ , wherein a sexual slave or submissive becomes so enmeshed in the pain, humiliation or other unsavory treatment forced upon them during a scene, they experience something akin to peaceful enlightenment.

But that could not account for all the sudden movement.

He had a fleeting memory of what had occurred when he encountered a real traveler for the first time – Fatima something. The wiring in the lab short-circuited; lights and machinery temporarily stopped functioning. And the woman disappeared before his very eyes, without a trace.

 _Could_ _…?_

No. He dismissed the frivolous notion and crouched down in front of Juliana.

“Miss Crain.”

She didn’t budge. The shaking in the apartment had ceased but her head remained down, eyelids shut.

Against the rules.

He snapped his fingers in front of her eyes. Nothing. He lightly slapped her cheek and her eyes opened just a crack. He reached back and yanked her hair.

“Ahhh!” she exclaimed somewhat groggily.

“What, were you sleeping? Are you getting bored?” John paced back and forth, kneading a temple while mulling over his options. He spun around. “You will kneel for me.”

Truly exhausted from holding one position for just under thirty minutes, Juliana rolled her spine and stretched her tired limbs before heeding his latest instructions. 

“Sit further back. On your heels.” John could never be satisfied it seemed. He filled his wine glass until there was nothing left to pour and offered it to his prisoner, nicely this time.

“Drink, Miss Crain. We can’t let this fine bottle go to waste.”

Juliana accepted the glass with great reluctance and sipped it warily, still in a slight daze from being in the trance-like state she entered. It felt like she was somewhat freer, lighter, unattached to anything but herself.

Saddened by near continuous loss and worn-down from her vagabond way of life, with no other options left for survival save the mercy of the Reichsmarschall, Juliana considered she may have subconsciously sought solace in her obedience.

Absurd notion aside, she could sense herself floating towards something immense and unknown. She could feel it building – and then he took it all away. Being plied with alcohol was positively the last thing she needed.

She hated the wine. Juliana preferred an ice cold beer or chilled sake, but that was beside the point. This particular wine was enjoyed by members of the Reich. She was tempted to spit it out, right in John Smith’s smug face.

He watched her take small sips and tutted. “Miss Crain, you’re taking too long. Do not make me force it down your throat like I did last time. We wouldn’t want you dribbling all over yourself.”

He, of course, would never admit the very same thing just happened to him. To do so would be to imply they were equals in some way. In his mind, they were nothing of the kind.

When she finally finished, he had her rise. The chain was reattached to her collar and she was led her to the bathroom, her wobbly legs making it that much more difficult to walk in the sky-high pumps.

At one point Juliana tottered so much she had to grab hold of a bookcase, but John just pried her hand off and rewarded her with a swift spank to her left cheek and a sharp push.

His cruel laughter threatened to eat at her spirit as she stumbled down the hallway.

The door was cracked open just wide enough to feed the chain through, more as a method of exerting control, rather than a means of preventing escape (as if that were even remotely possible).

Juliana stared into nothingness. _So considerate of him not to force me to urinate in a bucket like a real prisoner_ , she mused. When she felt a tug, she reluctantly wiped, flushed the toilet, washed and dried her hands and was returned to the same spot on living room carpet as before.

Holding onto the chain with one hand, John placed his other between her shoulder blades and shoved her to the ground, back onto her aching knees. Her hair was gripped before she could blink.

“I think it’s time for a little fun, slut.”

 

He was back to that word. The one that would only be rolled out during special occasions…

John wrapped her braid around one hand, twisting it until it was tight enough to use as leverage. He easily flipped her over onto her back.

She squealed at the sharp sting of more hairs being plucked from her poor scalp against their will, while the orientation of her surroundings rapidly shifted. She fell at his feet with his hand still clutching her hair.

“You see? So very useful.” He tossed the still-damp length onto her face and dragged her back towards coffee table by her hands.

She instinctively tried to maneuver out of his hold, to lift her pelvis enough to knock him off, but he was too quick. He straddled her wiggling form, trapping her thighs between his knees.

From his back pocket he produced the familiar set of handcuffs. Snapping the first cuff around her left wrist, he brought the other behind the table leg and secured her right.

Once both arms were locked in place, John wasted no time in placing hot kisses along her neck, fondling her breasts through the cups of her bra, ripping the fabric down and suckling her nipples. He moaned in utter contentment.

“I could devour these whole. I love your tits. I always want them in my mouth and under my hands.”

He pinched a tongue-wet, pea-sized nipple, digging a fingernail into the very center, eliciting a startled hiss from Juliana. He smirked wickedly.

“I knew you would like that. Now lay back and take it like a good slut.” And he bit at and pinched both nipples simultaneously, savagely for several minutes until they ached and burned.

John smoothed his hands over her torso and lapped at her navel, kissing her flat tummy in a straight line, lower and lower, until he reached the silky waistband of her panties.

The instant her eyes met his, John let his lips rise minutely and wrenched them down.

Juliana rolled her hips from side to side and clamped her thighs shut. “No no no...” she protested halfheartedly. 

She started flopping around like a fish. His little koi was dancing with excitement!

“Yes, oh yes,” he crooned as he tugged the satiny material past her knees. She assumed he would remove them and have his way with her. 

But John had another idea.

She was still wearing the heels he so adored on her. Too bad he had to remove them for the time being or risk a punctured eye.

With his heated gaze trained on her, he coaxed her shoes off, one by one, setting them reverently on the floor, as if they belonged to a queen.

Next he took hold of her panties and pulled out her right leg only. Twisting them around the middle, he wrapped the free leg opening around both ankles snugly, but not so much as to cut off her circulation.

He wasn’t finished.

John pushed her legs back until they ran perpendicular to the ceiling and pried her knees apart. He leaned down and ordered her not to move a muscle. 

To Juliana, the mere pretense of catering to this demented man’s every whim proved even more challenging than originally anticipated. She played along and nodded in apparent confusion.

John released her wrists and tossed the metal restraints onto the coffee table. Swiftly, he looped each arm underneath its corresponding knee, forcing her to grasp her ankles for purchase.

He stared down at his prey with those blazing green orbs to keep her body in place as he pulled yet another item out from beneath a couch pillow.

Rope: black, semi-thick and soft.

He concentrated as he bound her petite wrists and ankles together, having honed his rope skills first as a sailor, then as a soldier. Now he was but a man with a fetish for rebels tied up in neat little packages.

He slid the heels back into place, mesmerized by their satiny bows. When he was finished hovering over her toes, he stepped back to admire his work of art.

She was so, so painfully erotic to look at – especially with her hands gripping the shoes like that. He wanted to come all over them, walk away, and eat a freshly butchered, blood-drenched sirloin while picturing his creamy remnant running down her fair skin, sticking to her stockings.

Still donning his uniform trousers, John sat on the rug, one leg straight out, the other bent at the knee, propped near her left hip. He wasted no time in finding her small thatch of dark brown hair, squeezing and releasing the pillowy flesh.

He had such fine elegant fingers for a fascist monster, Juliana noted traitorously. She watched in fascinated horror as he glided them lower, massaging her hood, teasing her inner and outer folds.

At one point, he bounced his fingers over that taut little junction separating her sex from her other, tighter hole.

Never once did he venture too close to her clit.

He removed his fingers and wiped them atop her slender thigh, now glistening with moisture.

“I take your wetness as consent,” John informed matter-of-factually, as if spelling out the consequences to a suspect suspended from the ceiling, seconds before the lash swung and struck.

He then grabbed the empty wine bottle sitting on a side table and began to stroke its neck as if it were his own cock: firm, yet easy; prolonging the inevitable.

Juliana was rendered mute once the wine bottle appeared. She strove to focus her attention on his partially exposed chest; the serious set of his mouth.

"Won’t you be my little slut again, Miss Crain?” he asked. 

_Won't she be his bound captive Valentine?_

 

She lay there in absolute trepidation, mortified to the core.  Against her better judgement, Juliana refused to let him see her testing the bonds. She so desperately wanted to escape but managed a noncommittal nod.

His preternatural eyes acknowledged the tiny gesture of affirmation, but only words would appease him. Otherwise, it would cease to be his fantasy. 

At his unwavering stare, she replied that she would be his "dirty, helpless slut again,” licking her full lips for deliberate effect.

He didn’t hesitate, kneeling before her body, spread open like a soon-to-be-corrupted butterfly. John began to glide the neck of the bottle over her lips, again avoiding her most sensitive, hungry spot. 

He held her squirming body by the waist and rubbed her juices around. Not quite satisfied with the level of lubrication, he spat on the bottle, spread it around the neck, held her lips open and aimed.  

Inch by inch, the smooth, cool glass plunged into her depths. When it was about halfway in, John slid it back out all the way with an audible pop.

Juliana whimpered, mainly in protest.

“Does my slut want more of this bottle of fine German wine shoved up her tight (he pulled on her thigh with his teeth forcefully)… little (he bit the base of her thigh)…pussy?

He finished his erotic assault by smacking her rear just close enough to send titillating vibrations to that hidden erogenous zone he’d toyed with before.

She found everything he said and did to her both horribly insulting and incredibly arousing.  

W _hat the_ _fuck_ was  _he doing to her?_ In all her twenty-eight years, she’d never imagined…

Poised with the tip of the bottle at her opening, he started to get riled up. “Answer me, slut. Now. And be detailed about it.”

John Smith was one sick fuck.

“Oh yes, John, your slut is so ready to be punished with that thick, hard bottle," she rattled off, a verbal roll of her eyes. "My pussy is so tight and wet…I need to feel it. Please, John, cram it inside of me.”

He watched her sinful rose-red lips move over each embarrassing word, but he was drawn like a rock hard magnet to one in particular.

"At what point did I say this was going to be a punishment?”

Her mouth went dry.

Despite his personal agenda, John felt this was too delicious an offer not to humor. 

"While I would normally jump at such an opportunity, Miss Crain, right now I am going to have to politely decline.”

At this, he slid the bottle home, pumping her with a subtle twisting motion and characteristic precision. “However," he continued cryptically, “I’m sure something can be arranged; that is, if it meets my specific requirements.”

Juliana emitted a low moan as the lip of the bottle teased her g-spot. Even though seething with resentment, every new perversion he introduced seemed determined to make her wetter.

John's domineering presence alone sent heat rushing through her veins. Her clit was primed to burst at a single swipe of his finger - or tongue. 

He went at her so long his wrist began to ache. It was an awkward position for him with her tied like that, yet it was worth it not only for the stunning visuals, but also to hear evidence of this unnatural creature’s arousal. 

He fought a sudden urge to whip out his straining erection and rub it against her cheek, knowing that, despite her initial reluctance, she had warmed to her role and was just itching to let go. 

 _What I wouldn't give for these oppressively drab walls to be tinted the same oceanic shade as her eyes, by the dulcet tones of her rapture_. He bit back a groan as he watched her neck arch, lashes fluttering. 

But now was not the time for that. She needed to learn her place in this situation.

 

Panting, walls clenching against the inflexible intruder, Juliana was dumbfounded when the bottle was slowly guided out and set on the carpet, soaked in bubbling juices.

John knelt next to her, lifted her head and brought the neck of the bottle to her lips.

“Lick it clean.”

“I –”

Ignoring the sheen of perspiration trickling down his neck and curling the hairs along his forehead, John proceeded to methodically rub the wet bottle all over her lips.

Evilly, he growled that she should move over it "just like a cock," taking care to "watch the teeth." 

She began to lap up the juices as he held the bottle in front of her. He turned the bottle so that she could drink it down.

“Open for me, slut.”

With that, she took the smooth glass into her mouth and tasted herself completely. John tipped the bottle forwards and the liquid inside drifted onto her tongue.

She almost choked on the strange combination of her slick, pearly essence and the last dregs of wine. It created a sweet, tangy mess in her mouth.

“Good girl. Now, swallow.”

He wanted so badly to tend to his own needs but the scene was almost over, and it would be such a shame to interrupt the finale.

He gently caressed her throat and she gulped. She licked her wine-tinged lips, smiling on a sigh.

Floored by her unexpected display of gratitude, John pulled Juliana close by the metal ring of the collar and kissed her full on the mouth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that happened. John feels like a new man, and Juliana...I'm a little worried about her. 
> 
> In addition, I mentioned something called subspace, which is a phenomenon that really exists in the world of BDSM. If you're interested, here is more information (it certainly plays it's own "role" in Obergruppana's activities and might be Juliana's downfall). 
> 
> http://helloflo.com/what-is-subspace/


	7. Tornado

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, finally...now we're getting somewhere. 
> 
> NSFW.

He didn’t know he was seeking it. A smile was all it took. Juliana was being so obedient and he knew he had her under his thumb at last. A feeling of almost euphoria made him do the unthinkable.

When John bit into her lower lip, she gave back immediately, rubbing her mouth against his and then withdrawing a bit, instigating. He growled and pried her lips open insistently, latching onto her tongue, sucking on the sensitive tip. She moaned as he tugged and prodded.

John kissed her hungrily, practically laying on the ground on his right side, holding her head to his as if he were lost at sea.

He no choice but to hold on – control was everything.

After another minute of testing and exploring, he pulled back, panting, his snow white shirt disheveled beneath his suspenders, collar crumpled. His overheated skin intensified the warm smokiness in the cologne he wore. The color in his cheeks was heightened, setting off his extraordinary cheekbones.

But his eyes were glittering darkly, unsettling.

“Oh what a hot little slut you are, Miss Crain. With such a hot, tempting mouth,” he rasped, letting out a ragged sigh as he dusted his fingers over the cleft in her chin.

It had always been her most despised feature, aside from her A-cup breasts.

His breath tingled the hairs of her ear. “Also, extremely useful.”

She gulped. He noticed her every response and traced the line of her throat, admiring how the slight movement rippled against the supple leather of the collar. It was infuriating how rapidly his balls tightened at the sight of that simple action alone.

He had to admit – a bound Juliana Crain was truly a work of art. He would gladly replace the portrait of Himmler in his office with one of her painted like this.

However, she couldn’t stay tied in that position for too much longer – her servitude was not yet complete.

Indeed, when would all this end?

John wordlessly worked at releasing her from the ropes around her wrists and untwisted her panties from her ankles. He let her rotate her hands around to restore circulation while he massaged her delicate ankles.

Afterwards, he locked eyes with hers and commanded her to lower her hands to her sides and not to move them under any circumstances.

Again, she automatically obeyed. He was privately thrilled.

The panties were guided up her legs. Juliana lifted her hips so he could glide the sheer lacy undergarment into place above the garter belt that accentuated the tautness of her stomach.

She had the body of a prey animal, adapted for running, climbing, and doing whatever else was necessary to escape at a moment’s notice. The core strength she must have exerted for her to be able to act as his own personal footstool astounded him.

 

He lifted one of her legs, hands stroking beautiful calves that begged to be touched. He nudged her stockings with his nose, pushing at the fabric.  She smelled like a goddess, a vixen from an ancient land that reemerged in 1930s Berlin and embodied the essence of von Sternberg’s _blaue Engel_.

The hands capable enough to snap a neck or pull a trigger were gentle yet persistent as they roamed her silken inner thighs.

And then...

Her natural aroma admitted everything, negating the need for further investigation. But this was no ordinary situation. His captive needed to confess or suffer dire consequences.

Juliana’s legs began to shake and he pressed a hand on her abdomen to hold her in place. With his stiff, wet tongue John licked her slit back to front, front to back, occasionally probing deeper.

He abruptly closed his mouth over the entirety of her clit, much as he had done to her lips earlier – fully, completely. He sucked firmly, demonstratively, as if he owned every inch of her. As she was a prisoner of the Reich, he did in a way.

“Ahhh...fuck!”

“Do tell, Miss Crain.”

He pulled the satin and lace taut over her clit and exhaled his heated, cinnamon-tinged breath over it, pushing his thumb against her center, reinforcing the obstacle. Soon he replaced his thumb with his tongue, which he thrust against the spot repeatedly.

Juliana writhed under him, biting her lip, instinctively grabbing for the hands clinging to her hips in covert possession. John looked up at her and smirked.

She joined in, even giggling a little; one had to in order to endure the surrealness of the situation: Reichsmarschall John Smith in all his glory, lewdly perched between her thighs, gazing at her with unrepentant lasciviousness.

In the next few seconds, Juliana found herself with him straddling her body, wrists pinned on either side of her head.

Instead of screaming, she allowed her lips to curve seductively. John was momentarily tempted to ask if she wished for a ball of yarn to play with.

Just then, he was taken completely off-guard as Juliana knocked him from his perch with an explosive thrust of her hips. She simultaneously swung both arms to her sides as if making a half snow-angel, whipping her head to the left.

John’s pleasant thoughts disintegrated as he was pitched forward in direct line with the coffee table. He lost his grip on her wrists as he hastened to stabilize himself.

While this was happening, Juliana hugged her body to his rigid torso lightning-fast, clinging and climbing. She seized his left arm and tossed him onto his back. He fell with a grunt.

"Fucking bitch!" he spat under his breath, unable to comprehend the past ten seconds.

She took off the stilettos and bolted down the hall, stopping halfway to pelt one at his head when his disorientated form began to rise from the carpet. The spiked heel narrowly skirted past his neck.

Juliana cursed herself for forgetting about the wine bottle as she turned and fled down the dim hallway.

Once cosseted inside the bathroom, she connected the simple latch lock. She quickly filled a tumbler with tap water, sloshed it around her mouth and spit, repeating the action until she could no longer taste the unpleasant concoction. She then guzzled down as much as she could to quench her thirst and steady her nerves.

Her eyes flicked to the left of the vanity, where her stained jumpsuit rested atop a short stool, canvas slippers hidden beneath.

Formulating a plan quickly, an unfortunate memory resurfaced.

Quietly, mechanically, she smashed the heel of the stiletto not launched at John Smith’s head into the front of a long-handled silver mirror. It was hefty and featured a heart filigree pattern; more than likely an obscenely expensive purchase. A matching hairbrush lay next to a tin of dusting powder, its bristles interspersed with strawberry blonde hairs.

Of course the set belonged to his wife. Overriding any guilt she felt over breaking such a valued object was the knowledge that, were Helen in her predicament, she wouldn’t hesitate to do the very same thing.

Juliana hurriedly pushed out the glass, selected a small, jagged piece for herself and threw the rest in the wastebasket.

 

Boots stormed down the hall. Then, silence.

She braced herself, eyes focused on the object in her hand, willing it not to shake.

Unfortunately, the chair she had wedged beneath the handle for extra security was no match for the impatient, confused rage of John Smith.

The sheer force of the kick caused the door to slam against the wall twice. A framed watercolor of a fair-haired maiden gathering edelweiss in a basket slid down the wall and earned a web of cracks when it crashed onto the tile.

John materialized as a furious stallion on powerful legs, nostrils flaring, huge droplets of sweat trailing down his back and chest, with a throbbing pain in his shoulder from landing awkwardly on the carpet to prevent himself from colliding with the table leg.

Juliana tamped down her fear and doe-like instinct to flee and launched the mirror upwards, but the handle slipped out of her grasp and cut through the air like a lasso wielding a saw.

John swore as he ducked his head and pivoted away from the flying deathtrap. It skidded down the hallway.

With his back turned, Juliana had ample opportunity for a lethal strike. But she hesitated a split second too long.

It was almost as if she wanted to give in.

She really was very tired. Exhausted, actually. How could she travel if she was feeling too bone-weary to concentrate?

She should have been able to stab him in the very spot he had her support that glass filled with vile Nazi wine – in the middle of the shoulder blades – but something held her back.

The piece of mirror fogged up from the anxiety radiating like steam from the surface of her palm. As Juliana’s fine tapered fingertips hovered over the edge, her very first “kill” came to mind.

She had a purpose; that much was clear. Yet again, she had a duty to carry out certain tasks, whether she was aware of her involvement or not (as in the case of her providing Trade Minister Tagomi with a film that aided in averting global catastrophe), in order to ensure the continued existence of this world.

Before her was a man who got away with murdering undesirable children, while his own attended private school and got the chance to make friends, play dress-up…

He absolutely disgusted her. She wished he’d turn around already so she could aim lower.

 

He could grab her and bash her head against the sink repeatedly. Drown her. Suffocate her with a hand towel. Scald her. There were oh so many options – so many ways John could dispose of Juliana Crain with his bare hands.

The near-fatal object was easily recognizable, as only two things in the entire room had long, ornate silver handles.

The soul-crushing phone call resurfaced. All forty seconds of it (he’d estimated).

When he lifted his head Juliana made the mistake of meeting a pair of tempestuous eyes, each accompanied by its own low-hanging black cloud.

John felt such a surge of adrenaline when he sensed her intense vulnerability that he wondered if what he was experiencing resembled a cocaine high. He never had the pleasure of (or interest in) partaking.

It felt so electrifying. Killing never energized him, but exerting dominance did. And sexually, his deep-set alpha masculinity held such potency it might as well be poison gas. His eyes, his hands, even his words – weapons more dangerous than any gun.

Every true submissive knew this. Which is why he knew the jig was up with her. Or, it would be shortly.

Besides, it was obvious what she attempted to hide from him. It was typed in all capital letters on the second to last line of Joe’s autopsy report. It was necessary to ensure her survival.

But he could smell her fear.

“Drop it.”

One boot stepped forwards and Juliana, quite unexpectedly, lifted the cut glass to her neck, stretched out like a sacrificial swan against her messy braid. At some point the slender black ribbon had escaped.

She was not so fortunate that she could magically disentangle herself from this nightmare.

One knew not to blindly trust the words of John Smith. His ‘ _I am not going to kill you_ ’ could be roughly translated to mean _‘I am not going to kill you until I’ve crossed off every single item from my extensive list of perversions_.’ 

Poised to launch a counterattack, John stopped cold at the sight before him.

His heart actually dropped. A heavy inertia settled throughout his body and tempered the molten lust surging through his groin.

His itinerary for the evening fell off the rails completely.

The suggestion of a shift in the atmosphere began with that wicked kiss, which occurred because he idiotically mistook her smile for gratitude, or at the very least some sign she was enjoying herself beyond autonomic responses.

So why wasn’t she already lying in a bloody heap on his bathroom floor?

Because Juliana Crain was different. No blood belonged on her neck, only that collar – only ever that collar. And maybe, just maybe, she could serve him in a way he never thought possible.

She stood right in front of him, as always unfathomably elusive.

She had to be bluffing.

 

Juliana was not bluffing. If she was tired in this world, at what point would she be able to rest in another?

According to the prophecy of the films, her life seemed destined to be stuck in an interminable game of cat’s cradle – or pinball; she couldn’t say for certain. Regardless of which world she ended up in, some form of chaos would abound, or would at least threaten to do so, such that she would never have any real hope of a stable life.

One small crumb of rationality remained: Sleep. She needed it badly. Not death.

“You know as well as I do that isn’t a very nice way to go, Miss Crain.”

The black clouds lifted above the lush green of John’s eyes, but live wires lay strewn about in the aftermath.

Her own, in turn, brightened for a moment, belying her flagging stamina. “No. It isn’t, John.”

She stepped forward and attempted to expend all her remaining energy into repeating the same action that proved lethal for Joe. Though for her part, she did lower her aim considerably.

But Juliana forgot that John wasn’t Joe. And he was convinced she wasn’t going to kill anyone tonight. Certainly not with any part of the mirror and hairbrush set he gave Helen for their first wedding anniversary, paid for with American dollars, not German marks.

John deflected the blow with ease and efficiency, exactly how he would have if anyone tried to maim or murder him. Immediately, both her wrists were seized and held captive in one massive hand.

He carefully pried the glass from her fingers and discovered it was shaped vaguely like a tornado.

Even though he had grown up in the Midwest, John had never encountered a fully-formed twister before. There was that one time a skimpy funnel cloud had terrorized his family’s vegetable garden for about two minutes before it petered out, but it hardly counted.

Holding that tiny piece of reflective glass impressed upon him a mock sensation of that self-destructive roar that he’d suppressed for months. The grief he felt for Thomas alone was beyond oppressive.

And the ruminating – it very nearly incapacitated him, constantly having to grapple with the bitter truth that to be a man of such stature meant greater precautions must be taken to prevent (or conceal) whatever liabilities might taint his appointment.

He had to accept that his very mortal wife had chosen their very mortal children over him, just to survive. An extremely sobering fact.

' _And what you can’t conquer, you’ll just destroy_ ' was Juliana’s retort as she mocked the Nazis’ foolish notion they could achieve multi-dimensional supremacy by utilizing a man-made portal.

John never intended to participate in the annihilation of unseen universes; or entire populations; or anyone – anything.

In that moment, as he confined this spirited (though admittedly broken) woman in his arms, he implored whatever higher power existed – regardless of what he proclaimed about the GNR’s views on religion – to help him make the right decision for the both of them.

 

He tossed the shard into the trash and set the discarded chair to rights. Before she knew what was happening, Juliana was flipped onto her stomach, over his thighs.

_Thwack!_

Left cheek, right cheek. Four times each, without pause. Panties pushed over her cheeks, out of the way. Wrists pressed together at the small of her back, lips gasping with the release of pure relief.

The touch that singed but never quite scalded was unexpected.

She squirmed fitfully at the loss of contact on her posterior.

“Be still, Juliana.”

He yanked the material over her crotch aside. One finger curled into the heart of her, so smooth and present. So very present. She clenched upon it like a warm vice.

He always knew.

A second finger joined the first and together they fed into her. She moaned and gasped with ragged breaths. He pumped his fingers in a few more times. She uttered a very unladylike expletive.

_Bad girl._

John brought his saturated fingers to her mouth, rubbed them over her soft open lips, pushed them onto her tongue.

"Taste yourself."

Now she lapped gratefully.

"Such a dirty slut," he growled as she squirmed over his cock. "You'd better fucking thank me."

“Thank you, John,” she slurred around his fingers.

He removed the slick digits only to casually graze them along the intricate lace of her panties, directly over the source her damp heat.

“Oh please…” She tried to grind herself against him. 

“Hmm?” She was too distracting. 

“Please…John,” her sigh dissolving into a whimper because she knew his hand belonged there, petting her pussy with mind-numbing tenacity.

John’s erection was crying out for its own pressure valve to be opened. It had been weeping on and off for weeks. Now with this demon-fairy laying on top of his thighs, aching for more pleasure, it was just about to start sobbing.

He stroked her hair and tugged at it, gently at first, but grew rougher as she neared her peak.

All of a sudden John removed his sodden fingers, lifted her up and guided her briskly out of the bathroom.

“John, what? No…”

He marched her past the dining and living rooms, turning into the sparsely but opulently furnished guest room.

A full-sized bed with a beige tufted headboard and ivory silk bedspread was located in the center. Modern wallpaper with sea green, vibrant red, and white fan-shaped flowers outlined with pale gold, as well as matching decor, pulled the room together.

John wasn’t particularly fond of it. He pushed Juliana onto the mattress.

Immediately, she curled up like a cat. She squeezed her thighs together, although her arousal was clearly losing its battle with her genuine fatigue. He pulled the covers over her.

“Rest, Juliana.”

He calmly took a seat in the red armchair situated in the corner, crossing his legs, tall boots gleaming in the moonlight. “You’re going to be needing it.”

 

After she fell asleep, John returned to the hallway outside the bathroom door. He retrieved the broken mirror and nonchalantly dumped it in the kitchen trash bin to marinate in the sea of decomposing potato peels, vanilla cupcake wrappers, and used coffee grounds.

He went to get the rope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, this chapter was a nightmare to construct. But I think it all worked out in the end. 
> 
> Quite a bit of a turning point here, for both of them.


	8. Fleur de Bohème

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John keeps an open mind and gets some much-needed shut eye.
> 
> Mildly NSFW towards the end. 
> 
> Also adding a Trigger Warning for brief suicidal ideation.

The rope was exactly where he’d left it, tangled up on the rug.

John could still hear the faint chants of “blood and soil” like an eerie broken record. It was just past 1:30 am.

The Hitler Youth were relentless. They had been schooled too well by a system that did not tolerate dissention of any kind.

That could have been Thomas out there.

Witnessing his only son’s earnest participation in the communal destruction of historic landmarks would break his heart; naturally, Thomas would assume he was making his father proud.

John would never forgive himself for helping to instill this monstrous ideology into his children’s trusting minds. For making them believe he wouldn’t think well of them if they failed to uphold the values of the Reich.

Now Thomas was a part of the past, just as America was.  

If he went near that window again he would punch through it with such force all the glass would shatter into millions of tiny pieces, which would rain down upon the revelers: his tears of rage. The pain would serve as a convenient substitute distraction.

Substitute because the real thing was at that moment slumbering in his guest bedroom.

All thanks to Juliana, the last twenty minutes or so were a blur: That wondrous kiss. The double-crossing. The satisfying kick in the door. The deadly shard of glass. His newly estranged wife’s equally deadly hand mirror. The struggle to make sense of it all. Finally, the mixed emotions that burst forth, culminating in his turning her over her knee and spanking her bare ass while she moaned and writhed. Feeding her with fingers slick from restless anticipation.

And when would he attend to his own needs? Had he made a mistake in bringing her here? Where was the incentive if she planned to outsmart him at every turn?

John had never considered that she might be physically capable of that deft maneuver, slamming him onto the carpet like a sack of potatoes – all 185 pounds of him. He would just have to be more vigilant around the unpredictable little tigress from now on and ensure he kept her in line.

 

John retrieved the black rope and coiled it around his hand, contemplating its reinforced network of interlocking fibers; taut, like solid muscle.

It also brought to mind the futility of his situation, which had at times generated truly morbid thoughts. The excruciating nightmares detailing the abhorrent deeds he carried out in Cincinnati – no, not deeds, _crimes_ , he reluctantly admitted – warped his mind and threatened to unravel his carefully erected persona of a cold-blooded Nazi prince.

Even if his life became so bleak that he would want to end it all, there were practical considerations. This was the only rope he owned and it just wasn’t strong enough to bear his weight without snapping prematurely. And knowing Juliana, she would probably hear the sounds of the noose slowly breaking and move hell and high water to save him.

But as long as she was tied up, he reasoned, this final act would never come to pass. That rope was destined to be an instrument of pleasure, not a harbinger of suicide.

It was one of the items he kept from his old life, locked away in a trunk in his study, a place everyone always knew was off limits. John was a sentimentalist. No one who encountered his icy demeanor and bone-chilling gaze would peg him as such, but there it was.

He wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t been drunkenly wallowing in his own misery, all red-faced and blotchy with tears from staring at photos of his family for hours, fingering Helen’s bathrobe with one hand, clinging to Amy’s stuffed bear, Herbert, with the other. That just wasn’t him.

It had not sunken in yet, the idea of Helen fleeing with their daughters because of his sworn allegiance to Reichsführer Himmler. Just as he had to shut his eyes when that mirror descended into the trash, as if swallowed by quicksand, he didn’t want to dwell on where she had gone or what she might encounter along the way. Or how his girls would be fraught with fear and confusion – Amy more so than Jennifer.

His oldest daughter was well aware of the stakes by now. She didn’t want to become another Thomas, nor could she be. Not a martyr for the cause, but merely evidence of the plague running through his family line.

He never should have had children. But he was a slave to his pride. He needed that picture-perfect family that he loved more than life itself back or...or, he didn't know what he'd do.

The emptiness was all-consuming.

 

And what of his object of distraction?

John stroked the rope absentmindedly, savoring the more pleasurable aspects of the evening.

Her legs. Her scent. Her face. Her neck. Her lips. Her stomach. The feel of the very heart of her. Her inborn submission. Her fire.

He couldn’t let Juliana go just yet, that much he knew.

He rubbed at his face, scratchy with new stubble. In that kiss he had felt something. A subtle, yet tangible pull towards some untapped source of well-being he knew he wasn’t worthy of enjoying.

A spasm of guilt struck him in the gut over her earlier mistreatment in the prison. It was either electroshock or a savage beating under his watch. Both were standard punishments. She was stubborn, as expected. He had no choice really. There was no going back after that sucker punch she delivered regarding Thomas’ shame.

He winced again when he realized he essentially raped her with the wine bottle.  

He knew he was a despicable excuse for a human being, but this was a new low. Decades of smoothly asserting his official authority as a means of instilling complete subservience had crushed his moral compass under the heels of his regulation boots.

Going into this, he felt he had a right to make her anxious and uncomfortable after all she had put him through. But she was a friend to Thomas when he needed her, for which he was thankful. She really did deserve better.

But that didn’t negate the fact that Juliana Crain was a known fugitive, wanted by both the Nazis and the Pons.

Nothing made sense anymore. And he still couldn’t find any sexual relief. What the hell was stopping him?

John got up and threw the bottle smeared with her essence into the trash, making sure it was well hidden. He never wanted to lay eyes on it again.

After he returned to the couch, his head began to throb. He considered taking some paracetamol but his drooping eyelids won out. He shut his eyes and allowed his mind to drift.

________________________________________________________

 

Dim lighting. Music. Cigar smoke. Bawdy laughter. Men.

A small corner band played Henry Mancini’s “Hub Caps and Tail Lights” while a Marilyn Monroe-type burlesque dancer showcased her ample wares onstage.

Erich, Klemm, and a few other guys from work were all gathered around a large round table in the back of a high-end lounge. One of them held a redhead in a glittering green dress on his lap. John was dressed similarly to the rest of the men in a dark grey suit, white shirt, dark tie. Black leather wristwatch.

No wedding band.

Erich, ten years his junior, was finally getting married and settling down. People had known to stop pestering him about his own status. They knew John Smith to be a confirmed bachelor. He was fine with that. He had his work- it kept him busy. He had good benefits. And he was a consummate professional.

That wasn’t to say he didn’t get lonely. He did, often. He tried not to get envious when yet another of his colleagues’ families expanded.

All the men were eyeing the woman on the stage with obvious appreciation. John tried to as well, but something kept distracting him. A scent, neither cloyingly floral, nor fruity and saccharine, but full of vibrancy and warmth.  

It persisted. Highball glasses clinked.

To his right a cocktail waitress was clearing the table, placing each glass carefully on her tray. Her brown hair was up in a chignon. Her uniform was slightly less revealing that that of a Playboy bunny: a blue satin bustier dress with a ruffled skirt, trimmed in black,  a matching black satin choker around her neck. When she moved around to the front of the table he caught a glimpse of her glorious legs, toned and slender, encased in sinful black fishnets.

He stared, willing the waitress to lift her face to meet his olive-hued eyes. When her dusky blue gaze finally found his, the connection lasted mere seconds, yet it was long enough for John to deduce that she was extraordinarily beautiful. Almost exotic.

She was young. Not high school young, but young for _him_. She smiled at him coyly with her full red-stained lips but pivoted away just as quickly, gliding through the crowded scene with poise and fluidity.

John found he preferred her fine-boned elegance to the other women’s overt sexuality. He wanted to call her over to the table, but she was too far away and another waitress soon took her place.

 _Ah well_ , he thought. The good ones always got away…

 

“No, he wasn’t black. He was _wearing_ black.”

A young brunette with mussed up hair beneath a prim hat, hugging her arms tightly about herself, sat in a room with a particularly clueless detective and a sleep-deprived sketch artist who nodded off every few minutes.

John had decided to forgo the rest of the festivities by utilizing his trusty excuse – old age. But the truth was just as pathetic – a stack of paperwork that came with his rank. The station was fairly desolate at this hour, which is why he was able to pick up on the conversation. Ordinarily, it was buzzing. He placed his coffee back on his desk and pushed himself up to peer through the blinds of his office.

It was the cocktail waitress. And she had what appeared to be a bruised cheek.

“What happened here?” John asked one of the night shift officers, Brady, as he entered the hallway.

“Eh, da lady almost got ‘erself mugged near Port Authority, but Jones scared off da guy. Too bad he were too fast for dat tub o’ lard to chase down. Bit late for a dame like that to be walkin’ around all alone, 'specially dressed in ‘er getup. Musta’ thought she were a hooker. She says she ain’t, though. Pretty em-patic about it, too.”

John paced into the next room with a natural authority that was enhanced by his sturdy six-foot frame and stern features. In his youth he was deemed to be too ‘pretty’ to ever be taken seriously, but no one would dare make such a comment today, lest they find themselves demoted. Or worse.

“Miss?” His deep, raspy voice broke through and the woman looked up immediately. “I’d offer you some coffee, but I don’t think it would help matters. You already seem fairly shaken up and, if you ask me, it tastes an awful lot like horse dung.”

She let out a small laugh but self-consciously clutched her thin coat even closer. “No, you’re probably right…”

“I _am_ right. Inspector John Smith.” He assessed her and suppressed a sigh. “That’s some shiner you’ve got forming. You should ice that as soon as you get home.”

“Yes, of course.” She glanced around at everything and nothing, doing her best not to meet his piercing orbs. “Um, I should get going if that’s ok.”

 _Not dressed like that_ , he thought.

“Well, Miss…” He peered at her file. “…Crain. It’s nearly three in the morning. You shouldn’t go home alone in such a state. Is there someone to call who can come pick you up?”

Predictably, she shook her head.

“No. It’s just me living here by myself. In New York, I mean. All my family is back in San Francisco.” She suddenly seemed acutely shy under his direct scrutiny, which silently urged a further confession. “I just started my job about a month ago.”

She looked like she wanted to say more but yawned before any more words could tumble out.

“Can you give me a few minutes? I just have to close up shop and then I can give you a lift.”

“No, really, I’m alright.”

“It’s no trouble at all, miss.”

He let her gather her belongings and guided her to a chair outside his office. “Wait here. That’s an order.” His eyes brightened at her mumbled “ok” and he nodded once, striding away with purpose.

 

The ride took a mere ten minutes. John had disengaged the siren as her neighborhood bordered a particularly sketchy area and he didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention.

He turned his head towards her slightly. “You know, I have seen you before, Miss Crain.”

“Oh?”

Juliana tried to play dumb, but she couldn't lie to herself. She'd crossed paths with several attractive green-eyed men in her lifetime, but this policeman's eyes were utterly hypnotic. They broke through the harried, thankless tedium of her shift and glowed _,_  truly  _glowed_ at her, in blatant appreciation _._ It was the first time she'd cracked a genuine smile all week. 

He inclined his head. “Earlier tonight, actually. You’re rather difficult to forget.”

 _Likewise,_ she might have replied had she been more forward, had the throbbing pain in her cheekbone not jarred her out of her pseudo-amorous stupor. Reality began to needle at her. There would be bruising, but hopefully a combination of cosmetics and moodlighting could work their magic so that she wouldn't be unemployed before the week was out.

Before she knew it he was out of his seat and opening the passenger door. "After you."

She looked up at him and trembled at his nearness. But then he held out his hand for her, which she took instinctively. It was like stepping into bathwater that was  _just_ the right temperature. 

Though she refused, his insistence prevailed and he walked her up the steps to her building. He waited while she searched for her keys.

“May I ask, on which days are you scheduled to work?”

She bit her lip thoughtfully. “Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and on alternating Saturdays and Sundays.”

“And what about tomorrow?”

“Yes, I’ll be there tomorrow.” She stilled. “Inspector Smith, do you need me to come down to the station again?”

“No, you’ve done well. We’ll catch the maggot that did this to you.” She smiled pitifully. “What time do you usually leave your job?”

She regarded him warily. “At two usually, but sometimes 2:15 if –"

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow night, Miss Crain.”

Without waiting for a reply, he tipped his hat, walked back down the steps confidently, got in his car and drove away.

Juliana stood there, stunned.

 

And so it went for the following couple of weeks. During that time they grew to know each other little by little, as much as one could ten minutes at a time. They were both rather slow to open up – Juliana out of inborn timidity; John because he was a rather private man.

The Inspector and his passenger were discussing the possible merits of _The Manchurian Candidate_ when something fell out of her open purse. She leaned forward to retrieve it from the floor.

“Miss Crain, you can find whatever it is you dropped when we get to your place.”

But she was undeterred. “Almost got it.”

He couldn’t help but ogle her legs while she was bent over. Again, she wore those agonizing fishnets. His cock twitched painfully all of a sudden, as if all the months of self-enforced celibacy had started a minor revolt in his privates. Everyone (yes, everyone) trapped inside wanted out. Now.

“Miss Crain –”

And then came the pothole.

“Shit!”

“Ow!” Juliana was clutching her head, hissing in pain.

John pulled over immediately, right next to a fire hydrant. He was NYPD, so he was allowed to do this sort of thing on occasion.

He shut off the ignition and leaned over, titling her head back with both hands to examine her injury.

“I’m ok, John. It’s fine.”

“It’s _not_ fine, Miss Crain.”

He still insisted upon calling her that for some reason. He tutted as he felt a small lump forming on her forehead. “One of these days, they’re going to have to make it illegal not to install a strap in every car, to hold girls like you in place.”

Ironically, this car had not come equipped with seat belts.

She whipped her head around, shocked but amused. “Girls like me? Could you be a little more specific?”

John stared right back. He liked this. He liked _her_. “Wayward girls who don’t do as they’re told.”

She scoffed, holding her head awkwardly. “What’s that supposed to mean? You’re not my father.” She tried to giggle through the pain.

He glanced at her legs again. His eyes lazily traversed the petite curves of her body and honed in on her eyes with barely disguised longing. “You’re right. I’m not.”

He let that statement simmer in the chilly autumn air (he had cracked open the window on his side so he could smoke). She took the hint and dared to press further.

“Are you going to arrest me, Inspector Smith?”

Would he ever. He couldn’t act on his desires right at this moment, but neither would he forget her question. His fingertips emitted fine electric currents against her skin as he brushed them across her newly healed cheekbone.

“Ooh!” she exclaimed, jerking away. “Sorry. It’s just that I feel a terrible headache coming on.”

John pulled away and started the ignition. “Let’s get you home then.”

 

When they arrived he walked her up the front steps, as was his custom. She started to fumble inside her purse. “May I?” he offered.

She handed it over, groaning. “Please.”

But the way she breathed that word into the small space between them startled him in the nicest way possible.

He fished around and easily located her keys. She only had two keys connected to a star-shaped keychain with “Macy’s” etched in gold lettering, a change purse bulging with dollar bills, a compact, a tube of lipstick, and a handkerchief embroidered with pink and blue roses.

He quickly let her inside. Without asking permission, he followed behind.

He had never been inside her building before, but he knew the type. This was a slightly rundown brick walk-up with a layout similar to his brother Edmund’s.

Edmund had died fourteen years ago trying to resolve a domestic dispute in Little Italy. The husband’s gun went off accidentally. John had his doubts about that conclusion.

Juliana’s six-floor complex was situated only two blocks from Hell’s Kitchen in Midtown West. He felt bad for her, having to come home to these narrow, creaky stairs after spending hours on her feet in high heels.

But she wore them so well.

She led him upstairs and he watched her slim body sway gently from side to side. Teal blue pea coat barely covering her tiny dress; those stems that could murder him in his sleep.

Suddenly, he had an urge to take hold of one. With every step it seemed as if they were openly inviting his touch.

 

Blissfully, she only lived on the third floor.

“Oh, it’s the worst, living literally surrounded by noise. But that’s New York, I guess.”

It was something she’d recited before to the only other two men allowed through her inner sanctum.

“It certainly is,” he agreed. There was no denying that.

 _3H_  the faded burgundy door announced. Here she took back her keys and unlocked the door, flicking on the light switch and tossing the keys on a nearby table.

Her living space could be described as elegant shabby chic. It was a charming midsized studio done up in a color scheme of light neutrals and warm pastels, making it appear larger than it really was.

“A total steal with what I make in a week.”

It was obvious that a woman lived here. A young woman. Not a doily in sight. A newish record player, several albums neatly stacked on a shelf beside it. A few well-tended plants. A couple Degas prints adorning the walls.

“Do you happen to have any ice?”

“Of course I do! I don’t live in the dark ages,” she chuckled.

He grabbed a pristine dish towel that was hanging from the oven door. With the exception of a plate, mug and cutlery in the sink, the kitchenette was spotless.

John handed her the makeshift ice pack. Her coat already dangling from a hook on the door, Juliana knelt on a small chintz love seat in her very skimpy uniform. He had to turn away, lest he betray his instant excitement.

It was one thing if she was working in the club amidst dim lighting and decorative candles. Now, with her perched expectantly on that stark white couch, alone…

He started sifting through the albums and found one with a peculiar title. “ _Alley Cat_?” He held up the yellow cover. “I don’t think I’ve heard of this one.”

She turned around. “Oh, my sister Trudy sent me that right after it came out as a kind of joke.”

He cocked his eyebrow. “Go on…”

She looked so bashful just then. “No…it’s just that…” She glanced sideways and rolled her vibrant blue eyes. “Trudy always said I reminded her of a cat. For the life of me, I’ll never know why.”

John could think of a thousand reasons why but forbade himself from voicing them.

“I’d let you listen to it,” she continued, “but it would be really inconsiderate at this hour. Plus, it’s sort of…goofy.” Her smile warmed his heart a little.

 

He came and sat next to her. “Let me see that bump of yours.” He removed the ice pack. His bright green gaze swept over her forehead. They softened upon their descent, encountering a sparkling set of almond-shaped jewels, lightly rimmed with black liner.

“Actually, your eyes are very…catlike. Feline.”

She blinked beguilingly, blood red lips parting of their own accord. “Really?”

He smiled. “Yes, really.” John chanced a look down at her lips. “Very becoming.”

She gasped. “Would you like something…something to drink?” Juliana felt a surge of heat creeping up her neck, settling high into her cheeks.

“No,” he whispered huskily, not able to prevent his mouth from tasting hers, at last.

The subtle caress soon enough turned insistent. She let his hand drift below her neck, over her collarbone, which he kissed and licked softly. The tops of her breasts were next.

John was the most sensual man she had ever encountered. Ghosting his nose over the edge of her corset top, he had to inquire, “What on earth are you wearing?”

“A…well, it’s sort of like a bustier but-"

“No, sweetheart, your perfume,” he grinned against her ear. The scent was alarmingly arousing.

Between gasps, running her fingers through his short dark chocolate and silver curls, she told him, “Fleur de Bohème. It’s very…hard to find…nowadays. I believe it’s been…discontinued.”

“Is that so? What a shame.”

John wanted to bite into the tantalizing join of her neck and shoulders.  Wrench her bodice down and feast on her pert breasts. Instead, he stroked her supple legs still clad in the deliriously alluring fishnet stockings. He wanted to tear those off with his teeth.

He abruptly released her when he felt her tense up. She was injured after all, and he felt like he might be taking advantage.

“Do you want me to stop?”

She licked her lips and seared him with hazy blue eyes. “It’s ok. I won’t break.”

He smiled as he squeezed her pliant thigh and grazed her earlobe with his hot mouth. “I didn’t think so, Miss Crain.”

She shivered in anticipation but jumped back when a loud siren blared down the street, very close by from the sound of it.  

Juliana rushed to the window and peeled back the sheer pale peach curtains. She pressed her delicate hands against the windowpane as she twisted her head this way and that to get a better view.

John thought she had an exquisite neck. So sleek. And a gorgeous dancer’s body, for that is what she was. Or rather, what she was hoping to be.

The bright lights of Manhattan beckoned to her, but unfortunately the only lights she was seeing lately were either turned down low or hideously glaring.

Sirens. He became immune to them years ago. Now they were as harmful to his ears as the buzzing of bees.

He slowly crept up behind her. Juliana caught his reflection in the glass just as he slid his hands along her ribcage, up her graceful arms, threading his fingers through her own. He lowered them to her sides.

Just then he caught a whiff of her unusual fragrance again. As John enveloped her body in his arms he was suddenly infused with a feeling of such possessiveness it threatened to overwhelm him.

“I’ve got you, Juliana…”

He groaned as he palmed her left breast over the silky material.

She arched her spine wantonly. He couldn’t help but grind himself against her ruffled mini skirt. His right hand snaked past her flat stomach, down lower. And beneath.

“I’ve got you right where I want you.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s some dream you had, John. 
> 
> Here are links to the two quite polar opposite songs referenced in this chapter:
> 
> 1\. "Hub Caps and Tail Lights" by Henry Mancini (1961)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3tjB--O2yI
> 
> 2\. "Alley Cat" by Bent Fabric (1962)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9fFf0ClVLao


	9. Pleasure in Anticipation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the Reichsmarschall is on hiatus, the Inspector covers for him.
> 
> Briefly NSFW toward the end.

**_“Pleasure is found first in anticipation, later in memory.”_ ** **– Gustave Flaubert**

 

“ _Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday--"_

She giggled behind her hand. “Please stop. You sound positively tone deaf.”

John sat back in the chair and folded his arms over his chest. “So sorry to offend you, Miss Crain.” 

“And stop calling me that!”

“Is that your birthday wish?” he joked.

She cocked her head to the side. “I never made it yet. Let me think.”

“Hurry up, Miss Crain. Those candles are really quite...tiny.” His warm, appreciative gaze skimmed the equally tiny waist of her new cream printed dress, which she had paired with a plain black cardigan.

“You know, maybe I _should_ wish for you to stop calling me that once and for all.”

He shook his head. “That’s a waste of a perfectly good wish. You’re a smart woman. I’m sure you can think of something.” He winked in that infuriatingly sexy way of his and took a sip of the pinot noir.  

She tried to hide her blush by bending over the double chocolate frosted cake John purchased from an Italian bakery in Astoria, close to his own home in Long Island City.

He also amazed her with a home-cooked dinner of coq au vin, roasted potatoes and fresh steamed asparagus. Juliana had told him, quite earnestly, that he’d missed his calling; he should have become a chef. He just shrugged.

He owned a beautiful two bedroom apartment in a well-maintained building with gorgeous views of the East River and Manhattan skyline and an amiable English doorman named Fletcher. The looks exchanged between him and John when he first brought her over was very telling – it was clear this was not a regular occurrence.

Her boyfriend of just over three months regarded her. “Can’t come up with anything, huh?”

She bit her lip and met his beaming eyes before leaning in and blowing out the rapidly melting rainbow striped candles.

It was February 22, 1963; Juliana was now 28 years old. 

 

John clapped enthusiastically and smiled broadly at her. He reached for a box wrapped in shiny gold paper tied with a black ribbon, situated in the center of the table, next to the bouquet of pink roses he’d given her earlier.

“Here.” He handed the box to her and she grabbed for it excitedly. It was a tad weighty.

“Oh my God, what’s in here?”

He cocked his eyebrow, so smug. Juliana, in turn, raised hers in surprise.

“That good, John?”

He leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “Open it and you’ll find out.”

She tore the paper carefully, not wanting to damage it too much.

"Miss Crain, what is with you and opening presents so damn slowly?”

 

It was true. Juliana had never had that much growing up, what with her father, also named John, dying in World War II. She figured the fewer gifts one received, the longer the anticipation should last.

For Christmas John gave her a stunning pair of sapphire earrings set in white gold. Having secured a high-ranking position at the NYPD – a veteran of almost 24 years – he earned a more than adequate salary for a single man living alone outside of Manhattan. With the exception of the occasions he would hang out with some of the other cops or Fletcher, he could be considered a lone wolf.

But now he had Juliana, who revealed one of her own talents by knitting him a beautiful black and tan scarf, which she handed him alongside a tin of spicy shaving soap. He knew she didn’t have enough funds to go around after paying for dance classes, as well as for the absurdly steep Manhattan rent and utilities, and he would have settled for her company alone.  

He really wanted her to move into his place, but he knew it was too soon to mention it. That and, aside from her step-father, she had never lived with a man before. 

John’s other gift was for the both of them: a pair of tickets to the premier screening of “To Kill a Mockingbird.” They sat and held hands throughout the entire film. Juliana got a little misty-eyed during the courtroom scene. John silently curled his arm around hers and her head lay nestled in his shoulder for the remainder of the movie.  

When they left the theater she told him that she was so upset at that point because of the injustice of the whole situation. John readily agreed. He had no problem with Negroes. One of his childhood friends was black. Life was never easy for him, but John saw past his color and asked him if he wanted to trade baseball cards. 

He chuckled a few minutes later. “ _You come in here, boy, and bust up this chifforobe!_ ” he imitated in an unexpectedly high-pitched voice. Juliana doubled over laughing. John had his serious side. But he was also mildly sarcastic and more than a bit eccentric. 

For one, he had a pet turtle named Walnut (she supposed because of his shell) that he inherited from Edmund. “This guy's going to outlive me!” he exclaimed. He also tended to go a little overboard when it came to holiday decorating. 

“John, I don’t understand why you need _two_ manger scenes.”

One sat on a side table next to the television set and the other was situated underneath a massive Douglas fir he and Fletcher had lugged inside, which had a tad too many ornaments dangling from branches that stuck out every which way.

Christmas had always been his favorite holiday. But now that his brother and both parents had passed, he had no relatives left in New York with which to celebrate.

He was also obscenely generous with gifts. To say Juliana was overwhelmed was an understatement.

“Well, I don’t think I’ll need to be purchasing anything for the rest of the year,” she quipped on that snowy morning. In addition to the earrings, there was a trendy purse, a burgundy silk blouse, a new teapot and a peppermint and white chocolate Santa; the Santa was shared later that night while listening to classic Christmas tunes on his own record player.

 

Juliana sighed. “Sorry.” 

She hastily tore into the package and finally revealed something that caused her to gasp in amazement.

“How…how did you manage to find this?”

“I have my sources.” He topped their wine glasses.

She stared down at her hands in awe. “Thank you, John. I absolutely love it.”

She leapt out of her seat and he pulled her down onto his lap. He was wearing black dress pants and a hunter green V-neck sweater that she thought made his irises stand out. Underneath was a pristine white dress shirt, one lone button released teasingly.

He hugged her to him and kissed the nape of her neck, indecent images swirling through his mind, unchecked.

“Why don’t you go try it on?” His eyes took on a darker hue just then, and he licked his lips in anticipation.

“If you want…” 

“I _do_ want.” 

She went to rise and he tugged her back spontaneously. 

“Hey.” He locked eyes with her and pulled her face down to his. “Happy birthday, Juliana,” he whispered against her mouth.

 

Her lips tingled from the brief kiss. The very second their mouths touched, a frisson of expectation crackled over Juliana's sensitive flesh, aftershocks reverberating throughout her body. A strange mixture of delight and…trepidation.

She couldn’t quite explain the exact feeling, except that it was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. And that she craved it desperately, like a drug.

She went into his bathroom and set the gift on the counter and smoothed down her loosely curled hair.  Her lipstick, a rich berry tint that brightened her slightly sallow complexion, also needed a modest adjustment.

Finally she opened up the box and tried on her gift: a perfect fit, as ever.

“Do you want to cut the cake?” she called to him.

“No.” He hesitated. “Maybe after.”

“After what?”

He didn’t answer. He figured she had to know. She was in his home, after all.

 

John had remained at the dining room table, remembering their very first time together, after she conveniently bumped her head on his dashboard.

She was facing the window. His hand was drawn like a moth to a sparkling light to her warm, damp center. Unfortunately, he also encountered an obstacle in the form of a modern twist on ladies’ undergarments known as pantyhose. He suppressed his mild annoyance at having to contend with the bewildering contraption.

As for Juliana, she seemed lost in her own world, completely unaware of his predicament.

“More,” she uttered lazily.

“More?”

“Mmm hmm…”

Wanting to satiate her, yet unsure as to how to achieve that, John allowed his hand to wander farther up. He could just ask her flat out what the hell she was wearing so he could figure out a way in, but her thighs began to close in on his hand like a cushioned vice. He moved it just in time to discover that the individual stockings were connected by thick, stretchy material with a waistband and gusset, like an ordinary pair of panties.

He was simultaneously aroused, intrigued and vexed. This had gone on long enough.

John grabbed Juliana by the hips and spun her around so that she was forced to hold onto the windowsill. Her teeny uniform skirt was hiked up nearly to her waist. Bold fingers grasped each side of the sheer black material covering the apex of her thighs and split it clean down the middle. 

He ripped and ripped, grunting with masculine fervor and satisfaction.

Paradoxically, John was known to be most kind and considerate, despite his usually stern demeanor. Tearing his gaze away from her newly exposed sable curls and delectable moist lips, he apologized.

“I promise to buy you a new pair.” Then he seemed to consider something. “Or maybe…twenty pairs?” 

“Then you’d better be prepared to get some very strange looks from the salespeople.”

Her breath had grown more labored by his effortless perusal. 

“Oh, I don’t mind,” he rasped enticingly. "Perhaps I should go ahead and ask for their entire stock.”

John gave her his most salacious grin, his eyes turning molten green with unquenched lust. Juliana was outright panting, barely able to keep herself from sliding off the ledge.

He wanted her now, needed her nude, pressed between himself and the glass, right here in her puny West 56th Street walk-up, just high enough to be perfectly visible should the light hit them. 

If anyone paused in their listless strolling to watch them, he couldn't bring himself to care. If they wanted a show, they came to the right place.

 

John’s lips curved into a dreamy smile as he savored the sweetly erotic memory. Not long after he started to feel the bite of impatience. It would only be her birthday for a few more precious hours.

“If you want to take my bathtub for a spin, you're more than welcome to.”

“No, I’ll be right out!” she yelled in a voice suffused with unbridled elation.

John took a final sip of the wine and set it down calmly.

He hoped Juliana would be amenable to one more birthday surprise. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the dream that doesn't end...yet


	10. Nothing But Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a very, VERY long chapter. Over 5,700 words. 
> 
> Inspector Says, "brace yourself!"
> 
> NSFW

The scent hit him before she even came back into the room. It curled through the atmosphere, the epitome of free spirited sensuality – of his woman.

When she returned, he hugged her closely. He silently murmured an expletive into her lush tresses due to his nearly instantaneous arousal from that fragrance.

John had the lights dimmed down low. She knew what he was about already.

“You know, that was the first thing I noticed about you. And now it has a name.” He cradled her head in his hands and nuzzled her neck. “I will be forever grateful to you, Fleur de Bohème.”

“It was so thoughtful of you to find it.” She gave him a quick peck.

In fact, she grew to love everything about Inspector John Smith. Mostly, she felt incredibly safe and secure whenever he was near. Protected when she was living alone in a bustling city with danger lurking about where one least expected it, especially in her neighborhood. 

Of course, feeling well-cared for was not the only reason she was so smitten with him.

John rubbed her arms and pulled back, standing more erect, cautious even. 

“What?” she asked.

“I was wondering if you might be interested in trying something different tonight.”

“Well, I’m usually down for anything,” she replied nonchalantly.

“Oh, I know you are.” He waggled his eyebrows seductively.

She wasn’t lying. In their short time together, John and Juliana had become quite the adventurous couple: quickies in her apartment; handjobs in a movie theater; she going down on him while he was driving; fucking against the shower wall. Those kinds of things.

Her most memorable experience was the time he went down on her while they were watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. When Felix the Cat came on, Juliana experienced such a raw, earthshattering climax that she started clawing at the couch and purring. That put John over the edge and he unzipped his pants and shoved them down just in time to paint her breasts creamy white.

Some of the remnant stuck to his belt. He didn’t seem to notice that Juliana, still quite aroused, had licked it clean. That’s when she smelled the leather. When John went to the bathroom to get a wet rag to clean them, she hastily, quietly brought herself to orgasm again. The memory was her little secret.

He took both her hands in his. “You and I are incredibly compatible with each other, in every way that counts. When we’re together, it’s really quite…combustible." John kissed down her neck, across her throat, moving to the opposite ear, inhaling her scent deeply.

“And you seem to be more open-minded than anyone I’ve ever been with.”

Her hand flew to her chest as ideas flew through her head as to what he might be implying. She sucked in a breath and looked in every direction but his eyes. But when he tilted her chin up, his look eliminated any denial. She swallowed.

“What are you suggesting?”

“A little broadening of the horizons, that’s all.”

She looked adorably confused. “Broadening how?”

He cocked his head and regarded her with an inscrutable expression. “How do you feel about being dominated?”

Juliana couldn’t deny her pull towards him, even before he introduced himself. The first time she met his eyes while waiting tables at The Blue Velvet Lounge, she wanted nothing more than to drown in them. The rest of her shift that night was a blur. She wandered home in a daze, not entirely aware of her surroundings, which is why she failed to notice the would-be attacker.

Later at the police station, John’s authoritative, imposing, breathtaking presence filled the entire space. She had not realized just how tall he was. She averted her eyes at first because his were just too magnetic, possessing an unknown magic swirling in their autumnal green depths.

It was more than the eyes, though. With his classical facial features and incredible physique, John served as a living embodiment of Michelangelo’s _David_. His effortless masculinity lit the match that struck her in all the right ways; in all the right places.

And yet as sexually experienced as she was, Juliana couldn’t help but feel incredibly naïve.

“I don’t know.” She had only a vague notion of what being dominated entailed but was intrigued nonetheless.

John turned over one of her hands and brought it to his chest, planting the softest kisses along her inner forearm. Upon reaching her wrist, he stilled. That’s when he closed his elegant fingers around its entire circumference. Then he applied the tiniest bit of pressure.

He spoke into her skin: “I think that you do.” The grit in his voice sent mild tremors ricocheting through her body.

“Um, I’ve never…” She could barely get the words out.

“That’s probably because you never met the right person to keep a wayward girl like you in line.”

Oh, dear God. The car. He remembered.

He continued as if he just pried he lid off her skull, “I had known you might take to this ever since that night.” His eyes bore into hers, the exact way they did when he told her he was most emphatically _not_ her father. “And even though I have no plans to arrest you, Miss Crain, (he couldn’t help but smirk) you should still be reminded of who knows best, from time to time.”

Then he released her and stepped back. “But perhaps such a thing might prove too intense for you.”

Juliana blinked rapidly, trying to come to grips with the interesting turn of events.

“Why?”

He smiled faintly, but his tone was almost solemn. “Because you would be relinquishing all control to me. For instance, (he took her wrists in his hands) by binding you, I shall give you no opportunity to escape.”

John allowed her time to absorb his proposition.

“Go on.”

“I am used to giving orders and having them obeyed, and I believe you’re an expert at following instructions. You haven’t had to with me until now, if you so choose.

She gulped. He noticed. “Will it hurt?”

“Only if you want it to,” he said plainly.  

 

John had for a while now tried to gauge her interest in BDSM. He was aching to initiate some sort of power exchange that first night but did not want to scare her off, so he settled for ripping her fishnet pantyhose and fingering her in front of her apartment window. Hopefully that gave her some clue as to his predilictions. 

Besides, it felt right to allow their relationship to progress organically. He truly wanted to get to know her better. Someone like her, with her beguiling shyness, humor, intelligence and striking beauty, notably her sparkling blue eyes, as well as what the French would call _joie de vivre_ , was worth the wait.

He squeezed her hands twice to bring her back into focus. He knew this was a lot for her to take in. “Now, this can only work if there is mutual trust. Do you think you can trust me, Juliana?”

She rewound their conversation up to the point he mentioned broadening their horizons. She replayed every word. Honestly, how could she be so blind? Dominance would come naturally to a man like him, and so it made sense that it would extend to lovemaking. Or inflicting pain…

Finally, he got his answer when her small hands squeezed his in return. “I trust you, John. Completely.”

John grinned briefly but just as quickly schooled his face into a perfectly neutral expression. He closed his eyes to center himself. There would be no more smiling until the scene was played out.

“Come here.” His voice dropped just enough to stir her. She bit her lip and obeyed. He placed fleeting yet soft kisses on her lips and cheekbone. “Let me undress you.”

John slid the black cardigan down to her wrists. When she went to shrug off the sleeves, he halted her, shaking his head slowly.

“Put your hands behind your back.” He walked behind her and placed one wrist atop the other, loosely tying her wrists together with the sleeves. This was meant to prepare her for what was to come.

“Will there be handcuffs?”

Of course she would assume that. “Sorry to disappoint, but unless you’re a criminal, I’d rather dispense with them. Unless, that is, you have committed a crime. Have you broken the law, Miss Crain?”

The way her former address rolled off his tongue reminded her once again of that sly organ's usefulness.

“Not that I know of.”

“Good.”

Button by button was pushed through each opening. John made sure she noticed his attention to detail. With all the buttons undone, he pushed the bodice of her dress wide open and tugged the short sleeves down to her elbows, further trapping her arms. Juliana started to struggle somewhat. He suppressed a grin.

“Is this too uncomfortable for you?” She had to make a decision. He was giving her an out if she wanted. Curiosity won, every time.

“No, it’s ok.”

John stared appreciatively at her cream satin bra in a modern style that provided her with a more natural silhouette, as opposed to those with bullet-shaped cups of the past decade, which he found bizarre and unattractive. He bent down and closed his lips around her right nipple, suckling on it and flicking it with his tongue. He gave the same treatment to her left, bringing both to stiff peaks.

He wrapped his hands around her 24-inch wasp waist, trailing searing kisses down her stomach. She squirmed as only a ticklish person would; he stored that information away for future reference. Reaching around her back he undid the knotted sleeves of her cardigan.

“Let it fall.” She followed his order without question.

Her dress was forgiving enough to be tugged over her hips; it pooled at her feet. He looked up at her. “Step out of it.”

Again, Juliana readily obliged.

She assumed he would head straight for her matching French-cut panties next, but instead he sank to his knees and began to worship the smooth, slender columns encased in sheer nude stockings. They had lace tops and were held up by a garter belt in the same ivory hue. There was an unspoken rule between them that she wear those garments for ease of access so that he wouldn’t have to contribute to what she termed her ‘ruined pantyhose fund.’

He’d joked that no matter how prestigious his rank in the NYPD, he would never be able to fully reimburse her on his paltry cop’s salary. Regardless, John greatly approved of her selection. And he planned to let her know it.

Her entrancing signature fragrance snuck out from behind her knee and made his mouth water with need and a strong urge to possess every inch of her gorgeous body. She wore black pumps that rose no higher than three inches, but they made her legs look amazing and contrasted nicely with her light-colored lingerie.

Greedy hands roamed the back of her thighs and gripped her ass, kneading it firmly. She closed her eyes in pleasure and dampened her berry-stained lips. Her breath hitched.

Suddenly John stood up and yanked his sweater over his head, unceremoniously tossing it onto the floor. Juliana was taken aback: He wouldn’t normally handle his clothing, or hers, so carelessly. It was usually folded neatly and placed in his dresser or hung on a hanger.

He turned to her and stroked her cheek with a single finger, as if she were made of glass. “You’re so very beautiful.”

She blushed. “Thank you.”

“Follow me,” he said, taking her hand and leading her into the living room.

After a few seconds he jerked to a halt. He shook his head at his forgetfulness - lust was beginning to take the reins. He started to think of what he’d eaten for breakfast that morning to silence that part of his brain that burned to taste and tear into her.

“I neglected to mention the most important rule of all. You have to think of a word to say in case you want to stop whatever activity we’re engaging in. A safe word.”

Juliana looked perplexed. 

“Part of submission involves being able to derive pleasure out of something that might normally feel uncomfortable or painful. Sometimes it gets to be too much.”

Her eyes widened. This was all new to her.  She felt a shiver of apprehension course through her, but it was the same spark that fizzled like soda pop whenever they kissed – it was their passion igniting.

“It’s really so that I don’t overstep the bounds.”

“But you would never…”

John busied himself with his hands and tried to compose a proper response. “Even the best intentions can go awry. You can never be too careful.”

“Oh.” But hadn’t he always been her strong protector?

“On my honor, if you choose to say this word – a food, a name, even a color – I will drop whatever I’m doing and check in with you immediately. It’s rather like throwing cold water on a raging inferno.” His eyes went serpentine then, a golden green glow radiating from beneath that dark, prominent brow.

Mesmerized, she looked down at her own hands, fiddling with a silver ring. An inconsequential action meant to calm her so she could make the right decision.

Juliana felt she had to break the subtle tension that surfaced between them after he quite ardently revealed to her his innermost desires. It felt almost strange to engage in this type of discussion with him. While he was ever the perfect gentleman to her, she always sensed something simmered beneath. His assertiveness was an asset to his career, but that didn’t necessarily mean it transferred to the bedroom.

In this instance, however, it did. And she found herself drawn to him more than ever.

His confidence was staggering and made her feel extremely feminine. And so, so aroused.

There were times that, when she was waiting for him to pick her up for a date, such as visiting the Central Park Zoo or going ice skating at Rockefeller Center, she became so overwhelmed at the thought of getting yet another opportunity to appreciate his well-muscled form in all its naked glory that she was forced to change her panties, or else have to contend with an annoying wet patch for hours.

Until he removed them, that is.

Out of nowhere, Juliana replied, “Felix.”

“Felix? Really? Like…” John sighed as he raked her form from top to bottom and back again. “The cat. I should have known.”

She blushed prettily.

He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “You will truly be mine, Juliana?” his words laden with meaning.

She noted the serious set of his jawline, the intricate bobbing of his Adam’s apple. “Who else would I belong to?”“

"I see you’re getting the idea already.”

 

The fire crackled invitingly, casting shadows to set the mood. He guided her to sit on the soft black leather ottoman. He caressed her face. “Remember your word, Juliana. Anytime you need me to stop, just say it.”

“I really can't just tell you to stop?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“I don’t understand.” Her mind might have struggled with this, but her body was quite up to date on the facts.

“There are instances where you might want to tell me _no_ , but in reality you would want me to keep going.”

“Are we playing a game then?”

“Just do what I say and I promise we’ll have plenty of fun.”

How cryptic.

“What, like _Simon Says_?” she giggled.

“No.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. His mind worked lightning fast _._ This was not what he’d planned, but what the hell…

“It’s called _Inspector Says_.”

“Um, alright.” Sometimes John could be so strange.

John walked behind her. “ _Inspector Says,_ close your eyes.”

When she did so, he produced a black opaque silk scarf from beneath the couch pillow. He pulled it over her eyes and she gasped. It was tied quickly but he took care not to make the blindfold too tight or to catch any stray hairs in the material.

She acknowledged his earlier statement. “Well that _is_ different.”

He leaned down near her ear. “ _Inspector Says,_ be quiet. Unless you want to use your safe word, that is. If you say anything else, anything at all, there will be consequences.”

His suddenly stern tone rippled over the sensitive shell of her ear. “Nod if you understand.”

Juliana did as she was bid. Immersed in total darkness, every other sense was magnified. Her exotic perfume, melding with the cinders and smoke, as well as the leather, which she was developing a peculiar attraction to; the raging heat prickling her exposed skin; the subtle _clack-clack_ of his footsteps on the wood floor; _his_ unique aroma.

She realized at that moment that she was delighted at the prospect of John locking up the respectful gentleman for the evening and letting the pure alpha male take control of her.

“ _Inspector Says,_  place your arms at the small of your back and cross your wrists.”

There was that fear again, that good fear, resurfacing as he wrapped and tugged, binding her delicate wrists with efficiency and precision. It wasn’t fear so much as immense anticipation over the unknown. After three months of dating, Juliana felt certain she could trust John Smith, down to her bones. 

She knew he used handcuffs on an almost daily basis, but she never imagined he would be so skilled with a rope. As if reading her thoughts, he muttered, “Eagle Scouts.”

A few minutes later, he stopped to run his hands over his creation. “Too tight?”

She shook her head, inhaling his scent; he must have used the shaving soap she bought him for Christmas. When it blended with the smoke and burning wood, oh…

She teethed on her lip. John noticed immediately and clenched his hands into fists. They looked so pillowy and tempting. He had to keep himself together or he would ruin everything.

He tugged her forward until her rear was half on, half off the ottoman. It was a precarious position to be in. “ _Inspector Says,_ spread your legs.”

She did the best she could with her bound hands clinging to the back of the soft leather seat. John knew that as a dancer she was more flexible than she let on.

“Wider.”

She coaxed her thighs open a bit more. He tutted.

“Did I say ‘ _Inspector Says’_?”

“N—” she stopped herself just short of saying _no_.

“I really should punish you for that. I'll let it slide for now. But next time things won't be so auspicious for you.”

Her lips quivered but she knew she wasn’t allowed to verbalize her thoughts. And it was much too early for the safe word. She was a big girl. She could take whatever he dished out.

“ _Inspector Says,_  spread your legs as wide as you can.”

He watched the muscles in her thighs straining through the silken nylons. How she leaned back and how her breasts jutted towards the sky. John didn’t know where to look. The satin of her panties glistened in the glow of the fire.

How it must have warmed her...

“Wider,” he barked.

Juliana squeezed her thighs and concentrated.

“Good girl.”

He felt she deserved a reward for good behavior. So he knelt down and rimmed his tongue around the edge of her crotch; breathed over her puffy lips, knowing they were already engorged and pulsating with need.

 _“What an absolute slut she is,”_ he thought evilly.

He gripped her thighs hard, digging his nails underneath the lace tops of her stockings. He let the tip of his tongue tap at her entrance repeatedly, but never too deeply.

“Ahh…” she cried softly.

John moved so he could hold her legs captive with his knees. While it would probably be somewhat strenuous, he nonetheless stretched her open an infinitesimal degree.

He continued to fulfill his designated role by fondling her breasts over the cups, which he lifted up to expose the pert mounds. John wet his fingertips and massaged her nipples, rolling them around, pinching them, nipping and sucking. He moaned when she pushed her breasts into his mouth.

“Christ, I love your tits. They fit in my mouth so perfectly, as if they were designed especially for me.”

And he demonstrated just that. His mouth didn’t want to let go. It was endearingly erotic.

She always wondered why he praised her waif-like body and small breasts so much. She wasn’t voluptuous like the majority of the women prancing around the club. She had felt the pangs of their jealousy jabbing into her back after one of them spotted her getting into John’s car. He had been casually leaning against the passenger side door, legs crossed, one arm draped over the top, green eyes glittering beneath the street lamp.

 _“Skinny tramp,”_ they would mutter under their breath. Or, they would just treat her poorly, bumping into her when her tray was full, barely concealing their hatred even though they were cordial when required to converse with her over work matters. The usual not-so-covert female operation. She was much too kind, considerate and sensitive for such a place. She had to get out of there.

She needn’t worry about him dumping her for a curvier model. He had always preferred more petite women with nice legs and long, dark hair. As for the breasts…he couldn’t possibly make it any clearer.

John abruptly pushed her knees together until her thighs were almost touching. He yanked her back and she yelped. Realizing her blunder, Juliana turned to him and he instantly read her anxiety.

“Sounds are not exactly words. Sounds are allowed. You can moan, you can scream, you can utter whatever you like. Personally, I prefer purring.” 

The parade. He remembered that, too.

How embarrassing. 

 

He positioned her in the center of the ottoman, tilting her back slightly, but not enough to cause her to lose her balance. John crawled like a predator behind her. Juliana swore she heard him emit a faint growl (and she would not be wrong). He traced her arms with the back of his fingertips. She shivered as she felt a tension building between her thighs and she couldn’t stand it.

It was happening too soon.

Then again, he never said anything about having to keep them like that. Surely she could –

“ _Inspector Says,_  don’t even think about moving them. If I place you a certain way, you’re to remain like that.”

He kissed over her neck. Her abdomen tensed so she wouldn’t fall. However, she wasn’t that worried; years of training and demanding instructors had instilled in her a strong sense of discipline, as well as perseverance, focus and drive. And she was most driven to please her teachers, as a show of gratitude.

John reached underneath her hair and tugged gently.

“Oh!”

“Is this ok?” he whispered in a more informal voice.

“Uh-huh.”

He kissed the area behind her earlobe. “Will you be mine to play with tonight?”

Back to the shadowy, enigmatic intonation that she couldn’t get enough of. She nodded unhesitatingly.

“You will follow my every command. Do you understand?”

She nodded again, more slowly this time. He dragged his nails up her inner arm. “Will you let me fulfill my darkest fantasies with you?”

She could only ever nod. She was already in his thrall. She actually had been for weeks.

_“Anything?”_

John reached around and pinched an exposed nipple, toying with its firm pliancy. His other hand slid down her firm stomach, as smooth and determined as honey. He settled on her inner thighs, stroking the area between them, up over her mound with his middle finger, massaging teasingly.

Because of the way she was sitting her clit was still hidden. Nevertheless, her eyelashes fluttered at the suggestive sensations.

“ _Inspector Says,_  stand up.”

She was lifted from the ottoman and guided in a straight line by her bound wrists. She had only been to his apartment on a handful of occasions, so she was not wholly familiar with the layout and had no clue where she was being led. That made things more interesting. Would it not be the bedroom?

The front of her thighs hit a hard ledge. John pushed her forwards, laying her over the dining room table on the opposite end from where her birthday cake sat, turning her head so she was facing left. He messaged the tension from her shoulders and back and kissed along her spine, baby fine hairs springing to attention.

He then went over to her bouquet and selected a single long-stemmed pink rose, carefully drying the stem with a cloth napkin. The aroma was subtle but unmistakable. He trailed the blossom over the nape of her neck, her shoulders, the small of her back, her ass, the top of each thigh.

John twisted the bud over her sides and she giggled uncontrollably. In the midst of that, he had flipped the rose over, replacing the silky petals with the stem and its scratchy thorns. Juliana stilled and sucked in her breath.

He traced over the same places as before, creating a pattern of tiny scratches, careful to merely graze, never to rip into her tender flesh. Just when she was getting used to that, he went back to using the blossom, brushing it against her small ears.

“Yesss,” she sighed, as she felt it caress her knee. John stopped what he was doing at once, wrenched her panties down and stepped back.

“ _Inspector Says,_  brace yourself for your first punishment, disobedient girl,” he uttered in the lowest, most primal register she had ever heard him use.

Her eyes opened wide; seeing nothing, her other senses heightened. She could only make out her own heartbeat, his heated growl, and then –

 _Swoosh_ – _Whap_! over her left cheek. Luckily, there was no blood.

John lifted her hair and bent low over her ear. “Miss Crain,” he crooned, “if I’m not mistaken, you were told not to speak. Now, you don’t want that to happen again, do you?” He tapped the stem over her right cheek then decided to amuse himself a little more.

He grabbed her hips and ground his groin into her cleft, just enough to cause her to clench her cheeks whenever he pulled away.

“Yes...” Then, realizing her mistake, she panicked. “Fuck!”

He released her and laughed. “Already, Miss Crain?”

That name again, from those lips.

“Mmm, yeah…”

“Let’s see, that’s two, three, _four_ (he had counted on his fingers) additional punishments for you.”

“No!”

“Five.”

“Five?!”

“Six!” John leaned down and gently tugged on her full lower lip. “Please stop talking,” he implored, back to his normal voice.

Between his handling of her, the proximity and the contrast between his everyday voice and his darkly seductive, slightly menacing tone, not to mention the feelings he produced in her by manipulating a single rose, her pussy had started to drip. And drip. In her fog of burgeoning lust, she nodded. He lifted her face to kiss her quickly, soundly.

 _Swoosh_ – _Whap_ _!_  Her right cheek sizzled.

“Two.”

He spread her open and dragged the bloom across her pussy lips, like one flower stroking against the other. Her juices saturated the petals. Smirking, he laid them beside her head resting on the table. John wrapped his arm around her waist and lifted her off the table then plunged two digits into her tight, wet slit, twisting, pumping. Juliana bit her lip and moaned uncontrollably.

“ _Inspector Says,_ don’t you dare come.”

The scent of the bloom invaded her nostrils and relaxed her, yet she could still smell herself. It was driving her mad. John, attuned to her body by now, pulled out his fingers and –

 _Thwap! Thwap!_  He smacked each cheek hard with his bare hand, causing her to gasp. “That’s three, four…”

She nearly screamed when he shoved his fingers back where they belonged, ramming her deeply for an interminable length of time.

Time meant nothing anymore - only pure, animal carnality.  

John smeared more of her essence on the rose petals – morning dew in the moonlight. He moved the flower closer to her face, lining it up with her nostrils.

_Thwap! Thwap!_

“Five,” he rasped raggedly, kissing over her temple, “and six. Is that too much?”

Juliana shook her head, delirious with desire. In attempting to catch her breath, she inhaled deeply and took in everything at once – the vanilla, amber, orange blossom and patchouli of her perfume mingled with rose petals tinged with her musky essence.

John cleared his throat. “ _Inspector Says,_ you may speak, but only if it’s to say one of three words.

The first two he dragged out: _please_ and _fuck_. The third wasn’t a word, but a name, on which he gave no particular emphasis: _Felix_. As if she’d ever want to say that.

  

John tucked the flower into the bouquet inconspicuously, deciding not to divulge which one he used on her. He marveled at his creativity when it came to impromptu sex toys.

He bent to guide her legs out of the panties, which he tossed onto the table. She was still wearing the black pumps, which looked sexy as hell on her, especially with her bent over the table, giving him a private show. He stepped back for a moment as he fumbled with his own clothing; trousers, shirt, and the rest tumbled to the ground.

Without warning, he yanked her back by her hips onto his waiting cock, which was sizable enough that it could only be introduced incrementally, no matter how prepared she was. Her face scrunched in near agony as he stretched her.

But that agony would soon turn into bliss.

Grunting, John buried his hand in her hair and tugged it far back enough to allow him to reach under and pinch a nipple soundly. Securing his grip around her bindings, he steadily drove himself home, slamming her against the table like a beast.

Only minutes later, to Juliana’s cry of dismay, John pulled out completely. Dripping with sweat, he dragged a chair a few feet away from the table.  Before she knew what he was about, John spun her around and pulled her astride his lap, face to face, skin on skin.

He held her by the hips and positioned her directly above his dripping erection. She was lowered onto his hardness, inch by inch, wishing she could grab onto his shoulders for purchase but feeling a kind of perverse thrill in her inability to move her arms.

John ensnared her wrists in an iron grip. "Grind yourself against me," he ordered gruffly.

Driven by the demanding tone of his voice alone, rather than the order itself, she rolled her hips against his pelvis, pussy suctioned to the base of his rigid cock, which only seemed to expand the more she moved. John's member was massive; she could almost feel its veins throbbing against her walls.

He loved that he was able to plug her sweet, tight hole so completely. She kept licking her lips and he wished to God she would stop or he would never be able to last. He started to swipe his thumb across her clit with systematic precision.

“Fuck!”

She was getting closer.

He pried her mouth open and plunged his tongue inside, searching, meeting and teaching. At the end of their deep kiss, he finally lifted the blindfold. The only lights came from the blazing fire in the distance and the low-lit chandelier. Yet his eyes were bright and otherworldly as ever, an entrancing kaleidoscope of green and amber.

John pulled her in for a series of teasing kisses. “You like this, don’t you?” He bit her lip and tugged, smiling against her mouth. “You like this a lot.”

Her lipstick had become smudged after being shoved into the table so forcefully. Not only that, her hair was a riotous mass of thick, heavy waves, and John longed to feel those luscious strands again.

With one hand on the back of her neck, holding up her tresses, he ramped up his assault on her clit. However, it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay on task as slippery as she was.

Their sweat mingled together. Juliana clenched on his member again and again, moaning and panting. He groaned and reached up to pinch her tight dusky brown nipples, one by one.

Just as he caught her eyes rolling back into her head, he forced his lips onto hers and sealed their mouths in a frantic, breathless kiss. As they exchanged oxygen, she came, her scream echoing down his throat. Giving her no quarter, John bounced her on his hardness, kissing along her neckline, her cheeks, wherever he could get her.

“ _Inspector Says,_ come for me again.” He struggled to speak, so he would revert to action.

“N--”

 _Smack!_ His palm landed square across her left cheek, once. _Smack!_  He wasn’t playing fair, but he didn’t think she would mind very much.

“Fuck,” she mouthed, petulantly.

He scratched her already tender ass and grunted in satisfaction. She seethed with pain because it was more brutal than she was used to. But she took it nonetheless. It actually made her wetter.

John reached between them once again and plucked out some of her fresh cum. He lifted two slick fingers-full to her mouth.

“ _Inspector Says,_  taste yourself.”

He repeated the action until it trickled down her berry-stained lips. He could hardly wait until it was his turn.

“Look at this filthy, hungry slut dripping her come everywhere. So filthy...”

She whimpered at his lewd vernacular. It made her want to throw her arms around him and rake her nails down his back. But she couldn’t. She was trapped, quite willingly. She still found it difficult to comprehend that this utterly virile man had thought about making her his submissive.

She felt very, very thankful all of a sudden.

His hands held her in a firm grip as she demonstrated her natural rhythm, gyrating her hips like a belly dancer.

John envisioned watching her on the stage, dressed as a gypsy, a gold chain of medallions jangling with every corkscrew move. He laid his hand against her abdomen, amazed at her almost hypnotic sensuality.

In a way, he was ceding control to _her_. And yet…

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please...fuck.”

He forced her to ride him harder. He could see where this was headed, but he decided to have a little more fun with her. It was such a lovely sight to behold when she came apart.

“Yes?”

“Please…fuck. Please. Fuck. _Please_...”

“Harder?” He yanked her hair back rather savagely and bit her earlobe. “Rougher?”

Juliana nodded, “Ugh, _please!_ ”

He obliged her by tugging her forward by her thighs. She instinctively wrapped her legs around the back of the chair. He held her down by the wrists and plowed into her pussy, his hot breath over her lips urging her on. 

Juliana's legs started to shake; her mouth broke away from his. She impulsively dug her teeth into his shoulder, gushing all over his cock, moaning like an utter whore. She clenched upon him forcefully.

And purred like a dirty alley cat in heat - right into his ear.

“Oh, _oh_ Juliana…oh, fuck!”

John bucked erratically and threw his head back, coming in spurts that dribbled down her thighs lewdly. His eyes burst open, seeing nothing but stars, smelling nothing but her – Juliana, his love.

 

As confident as he was, he had never spoken to her of his feelings, just too nervous and afraid to get hurt. But now everything changed. In the midst of their afterglow, even though he had yet to free her wrists, he whispered it into her ear. She just laughed.

“How did you guess my birthday wish so fast?”

He pulled her into him and ghosted his lips across her sweat-sweet forehead.

“A simple deduction.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this was the tame sex chapter.  
> Next up, someone gets a wake-up call.


	11. King of the Castle/It's Lonely at the Top

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's crushing loneliness threatens to eat him alive, so he takes matters into his own hands. 
> 
> Control is everything for him. But you already knew that.
> 
> NSFW for abundant profanities and all that other stuff.

_In your room_

_Where time stands still_

_Or moves at your will_

_Will you let the morning come soon_

_Or will you leave me lying here_

_In your favourite darkness_

_Your favourite half-light_

_Your favourite consciousness_

_Your favourite slave_

_In your room_

_Where souls disappear_

_Only you exist here_

_Will you lead me to your armchair_

_Or leave me lying here_

_Your favourite innocence_

_Your favourite prize_

_Your favourite smile_

_Your favourite slave_

_I’m hanging on your words_

_Living on your breath_

_Feeling with your skin_

_Will I always be here_

 

“In Your Room” by Depeche Mode (lyrics by Martin L. Gore)

 

* * *

 

A distant sound akin to breaking glass, woke her.

Juliana didn’t recognize the room, though it was extremely well furnished and everything seemed brand new. She could almost smell the fresh paint on the trim. The mattress was certainly new.

And then…was that _chanting? Sirens_? She swore she heard something like that before. The door was partially ajar, so she had to act quickly if she wanted to find out for herself what was going on.

She was transported to the Smiths’ apartment in an unmarked van with blacked out windows, so she wouldn’t be able to observe anything. She tried to whip her head around to see where she was but the guards practically dragged her in and, before she knew it, she was in an elevator.

Besides the troops guarding the high-rise tower, she could see no one else milling about. That should have been most telling, but she was at that moment fearing for her life and wishing she’d had the opportunity to meditate while in her cell. She hadn’t yet had the luxury to travel. The electroshock wasn’t exactly beneficial to that end.

But perhaps she could try again if she hurried.

Juliana reluctantly crawled out from the under cloudlike coverlet, as it was the softest, most comfortable piece of any material she had felt in months. She was thankful for small mercies in that the bed squeaked only minimally and crept across the room to the window. She went to tug the curtains back to unlock the latch and made the awful mistake of looking down.

 

The goal was not to admit desire, but to prevent him from going off the rails.

Yet again Juliana Crain invaded his dreams.

The ethereal beauty told him things with her moves she wouldn’t have dared to in public, her unbound locks a pile of tousled waves on his pillow, untamed due to the constant friction, sweat-born ringlets forming around her hairline. John’s own curls had become a riotous mess. Her nails clawed at the sheets, quite literally snagging them. Both were guilty of annoying his neighbors below with their frenetic lovemaking at such an early hour.

One of the positions was aggravating his shoulder but he kept the heels of her ankles propped around them so that he could plow into her long and deep, and so he could occasionally glance at her pretty shoes. Then he’d push her legs towards her chest and have her hold herself open as he disappeared inside her.

The bed creaked harshly. Her eyes, sometimes more grey than blue, sparkled in the sun filtering through the tops of the curtains, partially hiding the glare of a bright winter’s day. All too soon, John felt a chill surge through him that threatened to interrupt their intense coupling.

John kept moving inside her but only haltingly; surely it would only take a moment. “Sorry honey, could you hold still?  Let me just…I’m freezing, aren’t you?”

He just wanted to cuddle her close, but instinct told him to keep her filled and full. The sex won out. She pleaded for him to massage her clit, but his free hand was trying in vain to locate the missing blanket. Even a sheet would have done the trick, temporarily. But if his body was cold, he wouldn’t stay hard, no matter how much she turned him on.

 _Just_ _like throwing water on a raging inferno_ , something he had explained to her earlier _._

John urged her to hold him tighter, to meld their burning skin together so he could absorb her warmth, but she started to fade from his grasp. Seconds later she was gone. In her place was a rope, which he started to rub against his skin to generate more heat.

He woke up with the rope coiled around his hands. He had somehow bound himself together in his sleep. Thankfully it fell away quite easily as there were no knots to contend with.

Bound and cold. No control. No love.

He fingered the sturdy restraint as the anger resurfaced, energizing him almost immediately.

He should be grateful that Juliana Crain unintentionally led him to the equally elusive Man in the High Castle – if one could even call a farmhouse in the middle of the Neutral Zone a royal residence. He thought that the title was a more apt description of himself, the newly appointed successor to George Lincoln Rockwell, trapped in a cheerless grey tower in Midtown Manhattan.

 _Man_ , not King, for the true King was Himmler, and he could march into the Smiths’ residence (fully subsidized by the Reich) without a moment’s notice, which is why John’s adoptive home never truly felt like one. His castle in the sky was a glass fortress that provided no real protection. He served at _His Majesty’s_ pleasure, a marionette made to dance at Himmler’s whim. If any actual justice remained in this godforsaken world, his assassin would have been able to sever those strings permanently. John Smith wished he could have pulled the trigger himself.

What a hateful man.

And family meant nothing to him, except to set an example for the American Reich.

John sorely missed his home on Long Island. The sprawling suburban streets and friendly neighbors; Max, the family dog, who had to be put up for adoption because pets were not allowed in this apartment (the girls were rightfully heartbroken – an extra sting on top of Thomas’ death); sitting down to Helen’s home cooking at the kitchen table, instead of a lifeless dining room. Birds that weren’t pigeons. Grass. The privacy afforded by strategically placed oak trees. An heirloom quilt draped over a comfortable couch.

At some point John had lain down with a stiff pillow curled under his head. It was never a good idea to fall asleep on this couch. It was not designed for occasional naps. The crick in his neck was proof of that. He ran a hand through his slightly dampened hair. He probably needed to shower. He checked his watch and his eyes widened. 3:00 am! It hit him with a sudden wave of nausea that Helen was gone. The girls, too. And he was doing nothing about it. Not like he had any idea where to start searching.

He couldn’t exactly alert the authorities, nor could he leave his home base because he was supreme commander of the GNR for the entire continent. How would it look if the Reichsmarschall ran away to hunt for his fugitive wife and daughters while the fate of Himmler was as of yet unknown?

Helen had abandoned him when he needed her the most. Right before his swearing-in ceremony she told him she wasn’t going anywhere. After he found out about the truth behind Erich’s death, and then about Joe’s murder, he practically ordered her to keep supporting him, to continue to persevere through whatever ordeal came next, to have good days – their lives depended on it.

In the barely lit living room, as he sat grappling with the loss of these two men, John let his shoulders slump with the weight of newfound loneliness and not a little self-pity. Who else did he have left in his life who cared for him now? Only his family. And Helen, his sole confidante.

He might have been selfish in saying so, but he never lied: he  _did_ need her. For as lost and unable to cope as she was, Helen was his wife. Wives stuck by their husbands. And she  _knew_ him: Knew he would never stray from his wedding vows. Knew that he loved her most ardently. Knew that he adored their children. Knew she could trust him with her life.  Knew that falling out with his party, regardless of his own nagging misgivings, was not optional. 

But how well did he know Helen?  Clearly not well enough to believe she would defy him like this.

So what was the point of fidelity now? He was essentially separated, even if it wasn’t by choice. Therefore, there was no shame in adultery, especially since there wasn’t even an inkling of a budding romance – more so because it involved humiliating and sexually assaulting a prisoner who needed to be knocked off her high horse. Before he had felt his fantasies were shameful, but now it didn’t seem to matter one way or the other.

His wife apparently never felt guilty for being 'physically demonstrative' with her psychotherapist; he knew in his heart he wasn’t being painted the full picture. How often had she fantasized about Dr. Ryan? When did it start? She told John she loved him over the phone tonight, though there was a chance she only did so to soften the blow.

How could she truly love him if he frightened her; if, due to his unexpected promotion, she considered him a threat to their children’s safety? She couldn’t even be bothered to leave him a note of farewell (the cliche _Dear John_ letter). Perhaps it was better that there would be nothing for him to analyze to death when the bleak reality finally set in.

He had grown to think of himself and Helen sort of like Bonnie and Clyde, even though they had been the most upstanding of citizens. She might not have gone on missions with him, but as a wife of a high-ranking Nazi official, she was devoted to him and aided the cause when necessary. And he assisted her, too, even if it meant breaking the law.

Although initially disapproving, she was complicit in his failed scheme to transport Thomas to South America. She intuited that he was the one who murdered their longtime, trusted family doctor, Jerry Adler, to help facilitate this plan. In turn, John created a mock robbery scene after Helen killed his wife and former friend Alice in self-defense after a futile attempt to bury the hatchet.

But ultimately, Helen’s maternal protectiveness overruled any affection she held for her husband, which was really as it should be. He wondered if, had Clyde Barrow not been impotent, Bonnie would have done the same thing. In their case, it would be to prevent their kids from being thrown into an orphanage – he doubted it had anything to do with avoiding eugenics testing. Any decent mother would. Even John’s own mother had not held him so close to her bosom.

Similarly, no father could possibly hold his son in higher esteem than John Smith. He regretted that he was so tough on Thomas, but at the time he was instilling in him what he believed to be positive values and traits. Thomas grew to be scholarly and athletic; a loving, dutiful son and big brother, with a pure heart and the naïve idealism that exemplified everything the Hitler Youth stood for. Ultimately, the perfect sacrificial lamb.

John knew he needed to accept that his holing himself away in his study with his personal grief, lit only by the constantly whirring projector screen, had a detrimental effect on their nearly eighteen years of marriage. Perhaps he was holding onto a lost cause in hoping to see Thomas again. Perhaps not.

Those films had shaken him to his core. They were revelatory. And he was in them, too! If the Nazis could successfully transfer one random teenager across the portal, what was stopping him from attempting to himself?

Of course, the notorious Juliana was ready and able to dash any hopes he might entertain to the ground.

 _“Great success is built on failure_ , _”_ he had replied to her so confidently, but she had looked at him like he was nothing more than a pitiful fool. The presumptuous bitch had sized him up and found him wanting, at a time when he was already feeling intensely vulnerable.

A shrewd strategist, he deduced long ago that knowledge was the most powerful weapon of all. Though wearing shackles, this renegade possessed a type of wisdom entirely foreign to him. She was dangling something above his head, just out of reach, silently laughing at his folly through exhausted eyes. The audacity of her!

John could not let this one die. It had nothing to do with the ridiculous kinder feelings he started to develop for her. It had nothing to do with that reckless kiss, nor the nascent feelings of rapprochement. He would get answers out of her one way or another. To do so would mean he had to break her.

John wanted – no, _needed_ – to degrade her in the worst way possible. She would be treated like dirt, used for his pleasure and tossed away like old newspaper.

 

Having left the rope behind, John surreptitiously crept down the hallway toward the guest bedroom. He felt foolish treading so carefully in his own home, slinking along the wall like a common thief, but he couldn’t entirely trust her motives. At least he had the element of surprise on his side.

All was silent upon reaching the door. John rounded the corner, but paused instantly at the sight before him. He almost did a double-take: Juliana’s slender arms raised to the window, her palms pressed against translucent glass. In his dream, he saw himself silently striding up to her, taking charge of her body.

Images suddenly flooded his already overloaded brain like a pornographic movie, and his cock instantly twitched back to life.  Only then, the room had been lamp-lit. Here, she was an apparition in blue set against the backdrop of a rain-dappled night, bathed in moonlight.

He brushed it off as a mere coincidence that didn’t require further exploration.

If only he could see the horror that twisted her features as soon as she beheld the commotion multiple stories below. For all she knew, it was the beginning of the end of the world, and she was ensnared in the devil’s chambers. She should logically be safer indoors, however as she was now under John Smith’s roof, the reverse would be true.

“Stop.”

As if on cue, John appeared, practically boxing in her narrow hips with his powerful thighs in a most intimidating stance, reaching for her arms, only to abruptly tuck them behind her back and transfer both wrists to one fist.

His frame felt stifling and completely overwhelmed her. And it was clear the monster wasn’t about to handle her with care after the stunt she had just pulled. He wrapped his other sinfully elegant hand around her throat, stroking along the side with his thumb, right along her carotid artery.

“I am in dire need of your services again, Miss Crain,” he rasped into her ear while she struggled mightily. This only made him strengthen his grip on her already sorely used wrists. She willed him to ease up on his grip, just this once.

Miraculously, he did.

A single finger traced over every bump and protrusion in her spine. He massaged the back of her hips, directly over a patch of faded, yet still unsightly scarring on her left side. It felt…nice. Almost like a soft caress.

She had a sudden vision of herself being stroked with a rose all over her back, sides and legs. 

 _"Inspector says, I love you, Juliana_."

That voice...

She shook her head, bewildered. What a ludicrous thought! 

John completely ignored her distractedness. He bent at the knees and yanked down her panties roughly, nearly tearing the fragile lace in his haste. They fell to her ankles.

“Step out. Now.”

Noting his impatience, she shook herself mentally and kicked off the panties. She would have to ponder this strange phenomenon later.

“Turn around.”

Juliana pivoted towards him, eyes down. She hadn’t forgotten about her beloved mentor Hawthorne, stuck in his own cell, worried about the fate of Caroline. She was frustrated at another missed opportunity to travel. Yet part of her aspired to break down John’s walls first. The cracks were there. They just needed coaxing.

When he became a crumpled mess, disgusted with himself; when he became so dejected he wouldn’t be able to live with himself, remembering all the deplorable acts he committed, all for the sake of power; when he was at his weakest, then, and only then, would she make her move.

Until that time, she would just have to swallow her pride and let him do his worst.

John retrieved the panties and handed them to her. He took a seat in the red armchair, poised as a king on his throne, pointedly ignoring the persistent drum beats seeping through the walls of the apartment.

His eyes were brewing up another electric storm.  “Turn them inside out.” 

_Oh, this was going to be immensely gratifying._

He wanted to palm his prick most desperately. But good things come to those who wait, or so he’d heard. Why not him? He had been most patient with her. But that, unlike her usefulness, had begun to wear thin.

She looked at him as she did so, meeting that mocking hooded gaze.

Cruel Nazi tormenting fuck.

She wondered just how much he had a hand in the chaos that erupted in the pristine, orderly streets of New York that evening. What had compelled those people to parade through the streets, beating drums and burning everything in sight, at this hour?

Frank had once told her about Kristallnacht and how his grandparents, only one of them Jewish, narrowly escaped public execution by the Gestapo in Hamburg. Their home, like so many others that belonged to those families deemed unfit to reside in the Reich, was raided and torched.

And where was the Reichsmarschall during all this? Getting serviced by a prisoner whilst the citizens of the capital city annihilated everything in sight.

And she thought the Pons were bad. They at least abided by a code of honor. The Nazis thrived on a system fueled by hatred and ostracism.

Juliana sensed that at his core, John despised himself. Her innate empathy always seemed to trounce over whatever anger or resentment she felt toward another human, even if they deserved it. 

At times, it weakened her. 

“On your knees.” 

He uncrossed his long legs and stretched one towards her. She stared at his boots, the twin objects of terror.

“Is there something wrong with your hearing?”

“No, John.”

She knelt on the rug holding the panties when it at last dawned on her exactly what he wanted her to do. Her stomach dropped.

_Sick, twisted, demented Nazi fuck._

“I assume you know what comes next,” he said with an air of nonchalance but a feral glint in his eyes.

She nodded.

“Good.”

He peered unabashedly at her exposed lips, peeking out from beneath a thatch of brown curls that he knew contained nerve endings she probably never knew existed.

“Maybe if you’re very thorough I’ll reward you.”

 _With further depravity_ , he told himself, immensely amused.

Juliana unfolded the satin and lace panties, sticky with plenty of moisture. When she first entered the penthouse, this was not what she envisioned as a ‘suitable punishment.'

She had imagined her jumpsuit being torn to shreds, a split lip, bruises, and a concussion, perhaps getting beaten to a pulp while she stood her ground. As terrible as all those consequences seemed, none of them would come close to tarnishing her dignity.

But this was debasement at its finest.

Most disturbing of all, she had not expected to want it; to feel her hairs stand on end when he swept her figure with his molten hot gaze. He did make good on his promise of using her, over and over again. And she actually looked forward to it.

How long had he been planning this? He owned a leash and had rope at his disposal, but the collar was brand new. Did the Nazis supply their more senior officers with such implements?

She was loath to admit it made her wet just thinking about what other devious plans he had in store for her.

 

Juliana looked up just as he traced his lips with his tongue.

“I can think of punishments far more unpleasant than this one, Miss Crain. Don’t make me wait.”

He drummed his fingers against the arms of the chair to further prove his point.

And so she bent to her surreal task, grasping the ankle of one of his boots.

Suddenly hesitant, she asked, “Is this ok, John?”

His eyes positively glowed in the nebulous surroundings. They slammed into hers, a gleaming, and dangerously seductive jade. “What do you think?”

She leaned forwards and bit her lip, concentrating. But as she inhaled, as her pussy clenched of its own accord, Juliana tried her best to be solicitous about the task at hand so as not to encourage further unwanted arousal.

John sank further into the plush chair as his captive started to buff in a small  circular pattern, imagining what he knew to be real – her iridescent juices skimming the surface of his uniform boots, which he understood could be quite terrifying to some. He felt her fingers slide up the shaft. It was too reminiscent of…

He closed his eyes. Watching her bend to his will was absolutely killing him, even though she only just began her duties. There was a dampness forming underneath the zipper of his trousers. He bit back a moan.

_Control, John. Try to hold on just a little longer._

Juliana struggled to continue. Not because it was an arduous task; far from it. The mingling of the potent notes of leather, her arousal, and the sultry fragrance he ordered her to wear made her so fucking wet she almost couldn’t form thoughts.

It was utterly unfathomable. She swallowed. Her mouth watered. She wanted to…

“Now the other one,” he demanded, knuckles clutching the arms of the chair for dear life.

She dragged herself away and immediately set to work on his left boot. She noted with satisfaction that it was much duller than the one she just finished polishing with what amounted to a panty rag. Strangely, she hoped her efforts pleased him.

“I want you to really work it in good. Will you do that for me?”

Would she ever. “Yes, John.” Her response came out slightly louder than a whisper, but he definitely heard her.

Juliana couldn’t help but let her eyes wander upward to hungrily feast upon his thighs, entranced by how the muscles strained, hidden beneath all that solid wool. All because of her touch. She forced her eyes back down before she could commit his purely carnal reactions to memory.

His nostrils twitched, eyebrows creased, immaculate squared-off nails tore into the cherry red upholstery.

Her dew glistened on the thick obsidian leather, but to her chagrin it was beginning to subside. Juliana searched the gusset of her panties for more to work with. Finding it insufficient, she did the unthinkable, without asking for permission.

She dipped her fingers into her pussy and they were quickly saturated with fresh, natural polish.

It was worth it to catch the astonished expression that flashed across the Reichsmarschall’s face as he watched her apply it to the crotch. The way his lips trembled. How his eyes glazed over.

“You little…” he panted, unable to produce the words.

Wet, wrinkled blue satin slithered around haphazardly, juices bubbling, so slick. Juliana caught a strong whiff of the leather once more. Heard his reluctant moan, low in his throat. Felt his hand gripping her hair, pushing her down, closer to the inevitable.

Her lips hovered over his boot. She exhaled over the spot. He eagerly pressed her into it.

She was trapped, imprisoned against the tough yet supple material. His boots had always been the villain of her nightmares. It wasn’t the Nazi himself she feared, but the symbolic instruments of death that kicked down doors and crushed bones beneath their tough soles.

And yet, they stirred her.

The entire scenario was inconceivable. She was losing all sense of rationality, of purpose. But at that moment she scarcely gave a damn.

The panties fell to the floor as she impulsively seized the sides of the shaft with both hands. She lapped at the leather as if it were a decadent last meal. The taste was indescribable, more painfully arousing than she’d anticipated.

She could not explain her attraction to these dark, masculine, dreadful things. It was as if she were confronting her nightmares head-on. No, it had to be about more than just overcoming a phobia. Why, _why_ was she enjoying this?

She let all reason melt away as she rubbed her face against his leg, so turned on she let out a kittenish growl that vibrated right through his bones.

 

John was on the verge of euphoria. His neck curved against the back of the chair.

"Juliana...” Her name caressed the air, but he barely noticed it fly past his lips because what she was doing to him was unbearably erotic.

Too self-disciplined for its own good, John’s mind shifted. He needed to regain the upper hand.

“ _I never sanctioned this,”_ he thought fleetingly, referring to her veering decidedly off-script.

When he heard the faint murmur of a filthy word curling over the toes of his boot, he considered her assignment completed.

But he could tell she fully intended to continue. Too bad he was the one in charge.

He shrugged her off of him. “Get up. And grab those,” he pointed to her discarded, crumpled up knickers.

Only now did the reality of what had just transpired set in – Juliana was absolutely mortified.

John hauled her onto his lap, settling his unyielding hardness between her cheeks.

“Oh…fuck.” She had never felt the Reichsmarschall in quite this way before.

“Fuck indeed.”

John’s forearm held her waist in an iron grip as he shoved his hand inside her delicate bra cups. Her tiny nipples stood proudly erect and he pinched them, squeezing them between his fingers; never too hard, just enough to drive her mad with lust.

He then began to lightly slap the taut, perky breasts; they barely jiggled. This shocked her, and she tried to cross her arms a bit. He was having none of that. He brushed her curtain of hair back – the braid had long since vanished – and manhandled her small tits some more, knowing and truly not caring if he left any painful mementos on her skin. He smoothly returned to lightly tweaking her nipples.

Between the brutal assault and his more tender ministrations, she could barely think straight.

“I’ve decided that you do deserve a reward, for exemplary service.”

John had never experienced such immense sexual gratification, and he hadn’t even come yet. He nuzzled his scratchy shadow against her smooth cheek.

“I bet your panties smell fucking incredible right about now,” he growled. “Would you care to find out, Miss Crain?”

She squirmed in agony. She had no idea what to do with her hands, so she gripped the arms of the chair, just as he had. They were pleasingly warm and slightly damp.

“Answer me,” he rasped, clearly agitated. Whether through anger or arousal, she couldn't tell.

She would say whatever she could to get John Smith to release her nipple, currently smashed between two bruising knuckles.

“Ahh... yes, John.”

She had inadvertently dropped the panties onto her lap. John tutted, picked them up and turned them inside-out again.

One determined hand moved down to her center, well aware of what awaited him – the obvious evidence of her burgeoning pleasure.

His forefinger drifted over the hood of her throbbing clit. Suddenly it slipped into her tight passage. He wiggled it around and scooped up some of her essence.

John lifted it to his lips and sighed. “I so long to taste your sweet pussy again. But we can’t let this go to waste.”

He rubbed it along the crotch of the panties. Then he used that part to sop up her juices, as if it were merely a sponge or a rag.

John was really starting to weird her out.

His amber-green eyes bore into hers while he placed them her hand, his nails digging into her palm.

“Lick them.” He frantically cupped her mound again.

Juliana lifted the wrinkled panties to her nose and her eyes drifted shut, plump lips parting on a sigh.

John started circling her pearl. It wouldn’t take much, for either of them.

She held them closer to her face and moaned while breathing in the potent, decidedly unisex aroma that was him and her. Darkness and light. Stoicism and sensitivity. The limitless dichotomies they had precious little time to explore.

His fingers moved faster. Her curious tongue darted along the fabric, testing.

John took immediate notice and pinched her nipple so hard that she gasped and he took the opportunity to push the sodden crotch into her mouth before she dropped them.

“Keep them in there.”

He was well beyond simple perversion now. If he were a regular man, he would be condemned to death by his own party.

He pushed them in further as he warned, “Don’t let go of them, slut, or I’ll never let you come. Never,” he shook his head in mock solemnity.

He leaned into her ear. “I know how badly you want it.” As he said this, two fingers slipped deftly inside her slit and pumped furiously inside her spasming walls as his thumb worked her clit.

She held the middle of the cloth between her teeth and sucked in her clear, musky juices. John wrapped his free hand around the base of her throat and held her there.

“That’s it. Suck on that dirty cum rag you used to polish up my boots.”

Her eyes rolled back as she moaned. She clutched her breasts, arching her neck beneath his hand. 

His fingers plunged into her even more deeply, crooking them forward, ravaging her until she squealed, right at the precipice of orgasm.

“Look at how depraved you've become, Miss Crain.”

She could hardly dispute this.

John removed his drenched fingers and pushed her off his lap, shoving her onto the bed face-down, positioning her on all fours.

Right where - and how - she belonged.

 

He uncaringly smashed her head into the mattress and titled her hips up, bare ass pointing towards the ceiling. He placed her hand directly over her pussy.

“Make yourself come,” he insisted, hurriedly slipping his suspenders down and popping two more buttons open on his shirt. His resplendent chest heaved with unsated desire. "Right the fuck now. Or else.”

He smacked her right ass cheek. Of course she knew what the stakes were. Without further prompting she dove in.

Her panties were right under her face. Juliana gorged on them, imagining John’s expert tongue trilling along her pussy.

No, it wouldn’t take very long at all.

John somehow managed to unzip his trousers so his overburdened cock could spring out. After yanking them down, he palmed the head and glided the oozing pre-cum up over the rigid shaft and back again with firm pressure, over the bulging veins, picturing her lips sucking him off with abandon.

Juliana worked at her swollen clit furiously, fingers sliding, tapping. Not a minute later, a shot of pure white heat ripped through the heart of her. She rubbed harder and cried out into the mattress like an utter whore, drooling sloppily all over her panties, cum trickling down, soaking through the silk coverlet.

John rushed over and pushed her further into the mattress and held her down by the back of her neck. “Shut up, you conniving little bitch.”

He grunted as he pulled and tugged. It was almost painful after months of pent-up frustration with no outlet.

She writhed and moaned like she never had in all her life – and being the free spirit she was, there were quite a number of memorable encounters she could pull out as fantasy material whenever she pleasured herself. It was disturbing that she knew right then and there that she would remember this one until her dying day, which hopefully wouldn’t occur until decades later. That, of course, was wishful thinking.

You never could trust a Nazi.

“You know, I don’t give a fuck who hears anymore.” He jerked her back by her hair and she let out a wail. He was the Reichsmarschall of the North American Reich, and no one could turn him in for disturbing the peace. As if _anyone_ in the city was getting any sleep tonight...

No, they would share in this ecstasy and drown out the dissonance of the destruction emanating from the city streets. Jahr Null could go fuck itself six ways to Sunday for all he was concerned.

With that in mind…

“Fucking God!”

John came with a roar, spurting all over her heart-shaped ass and thighs, sweat pouring through his shirt.

At that moment, John Smith felt that he truly owned Juliana Crain – his nemesis and fantasy object. He had finally branded her with his seed. A wicked smirk emerged as he leisurely stared at his remnant dripping in thick rivulets down her thighs.

After pausing to roll up his sleeves, he stepped forward and massaged it into her supple skin, working upwards towards her rear, molding it to her form.

Juliana was caught in another dimension altogether, and not the parallel universe she needed to travel to in order to escape the mess she now found herself in. She was still so freakishly aroused she feared her clit just might burst.

What was it about this man she hated so thoroughly that made her want to lick his boots again and again?

John felt so animalistic. Neither while he engaged in the bloodiest battles in the Pacific, nor when in the midst of pummelling to death the most deserving enemies of the state with only his fists had he felt this savage. He dipped his fingers along a stray puddle of cum and grasped her jaw from behind.

“Take your reward, slut.” So pleased with himself, he wiped the creamy cum all over her lips. It slid down her chin and she dutifully lapped it up. Whatever she failed to catch on her own he rubbed into her face.

“You love it. Tell me you love it.”

“I love it, John. Feed it to me, John. _Please_ …”

He was about to acquiesce to her wish when two scenarios, very vivid, briefly flashed through his mind. First, a woman with mussed up hair under a hat, wearing nothing but a short pea coat and a tiny sparkly dress, her beautiful face bruised, handing over her purse to him. Second, a woman gyrating on his cock, arms tied behind her back, with seductive feline eyes pleading for release.

He mentally swore into soft sable hair that smelled of a wanton paradise.

A very tangible feeling of having loved another jolted his consciousness into awareness. Scent beckoned to memories like nothing else. In this strange place, he smiled and clapped like an idiot as the woman he adored blew out birthday candles.

Another world? No. _She_ was not in the films. Helen was.

Helen. He loved Helen. He had married Helen. They had three beautiful children together.

He had never made love to a cocktail waitress in his life. Certainly not one who resembled the woman lying beneath him, still trembling with hyperarousal.

Oh _Christ_ , he needed to purge her from his system tonight. 

And before he knew it, he was kissing down her neck. His hands wandered all over her body, teasing and toying. Considering.

_Riiiiipppppp. Riiiiiiiipppppp._

“Oh dear, Miss Crain. I seem to have damaged something.”

He was referring to her stockings, which now bore two large tears, one on each thigh – four and six inches, respectively.

Juliana couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Woozy and breathless, she tasted his fresh cum in her mouth, on her face, the slight tang of her nectar; she smelled hints of leather and spiced vanilla and sweat and smoke and resin. All assaulted her senses.

John crawled over her spent body, batting the sweat-drenched locks away from her face. He leaned in and uttered, flush against the shell of her ear, in the rawest tone she had ever heard from any man: “But I don’t seem to have damaged _you_ enough.”

Her eyes widened in trepidation. And yet, she hadn’t the will, or the desire, to push her rough captor away.

John rolled her over and hooked a finger into the ring of her collar, pulling her up, right in line with his growing erection. His grimly handsome face twitched in awe at the look of pure need spilling from her eyes.

Large, round orbs flashed with the unexpected recognition of their synergy, as well as the promise of perpetual dominance.

Lips trembling, she uttered three words he had only ever heard in his dreams:

“Use me, John.” She lowered her head and looked up at him with that alluring, defiant stare, simultaneously telling and concealing. 

The roguish, degenerate Reichsmarschall leered back at her.

“Oh, don’t worry, Miss Crain. I have every intention of tearing you apart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a fairly intense chapter. It only goes downhill from there (in a good way, of course).


	12. Intentional Immorality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HIGHLY GRAPHIC/NSFW - This is the most intense chapter of the story - it's not for the faint of heart. 
> 
> As I stated in an earlier chapter, I don't condone any of this. If you prefer to skip this one, I understand. It's not necessarily vital to the plot, but it gives you more insight as to John's current state of mind. But keep reading because things are going to get interesting very fast (not in a sexual way, but plotwise). 
> 
> If you decide to venture forth, proceed with caution. If you want a preview of what's in store, just check out the tags. 
> 
> That being said...  
> John makes good on his promise.

 

**When fever breaks**  
**What happened to my mind?**  
**When fever breaks**  
**The heart sinks in the mire**  
**When fever breaks**  
**The soul throws itself under**

**Cause desire is rage**  
**N' rage is desire**  
**Desire is rage**  
**Oh rage is desire**

"When the Fever Breaks" by Emilíana Torrini

  

* * *

 

A stray droplet of perspiration slid off John’s nose, but he wouldn’t dare break this moment. He willed his breath to slow, eyes emitting a feral glow more compelling than the distant moonlight streaming through the window. The sky was still dark enough that only traces of the pale gold borders on that atrocious wallpaper were visible.

Barely propped up on her elbows, Juliana was struck dumb, utterly transfixed. When her front teeth scraped across her lower lip, she made a little sucking noise. Hair clung to her flushed cheeks, its length flowing behind her shoulders like brown silk sheets.

Taking all of this in, John’s smirking eyes mocked her natural responsiveness to his body. His cock bobbed in delight over the prospect of future discovery. Much like his boots, she became besotted with his rather remarkable length and thickness, which was already more than halfway hard.

He released his grip on her collar and her hands scurried to maintain her balance. She was pulled into a sitting position and their sticky chests collided when he reached around to unclasp her bra, damp neck coiling around hers.

Cleopatra and her beloved asp.

He pushed it off, one satin strap at a time. He was sad to see it go.

For about ten seconds.

They were by no means ample, but they suited him just fine. He cradled them under his palms, stroking his thumbs over the rosebud nipples that pebbled from the friction, increasing the speed until she whimpered. When they were taut enough, John pinched them, reveling in the awkward way her hips would jut forward in response. 

He was so close she could read the exact pattern of his irises, the streaks of warm gold and copper enhancing the clear green just so. He, in turn, beheld a slight silver cast in hers. In the ten seconds John and Juliana’s orbs locked into a trance, the three metals fused, creating a durable metallic alloy. The ratio of his gold to the other elements tipped the scales in his favor, as it should be.

This chemical bond would endure throughout time and space. They were not to know this; it was enough that they could recognize their inherent compatibility.

 

John prided himself on being an astute judge of character, and the assumptions he made about Miss Juliana Crain were proving to be true. He had sized her up not long after observing her through a glass partition. He first made his acquaintance with her when, dirty and disheveled, she sought refuge in the GNR.

He recalled his distinct welcome and primary assertion of authority: _“I am Obergruppenführer John Smith. Welcome to the Reich.”_ Her shy appreciation, however, was tainted with treachery. They always said to watch out for the quiet ones.

“There are two things I want from you, Miss Crain: gratitude and answers. Never doubt I have the means to extract both.”

She nodded, panting through raw arousal mixed with equal doses of adrenaline and lust, neither of which she was willing to relinquish. He stared her down and waited.

“Thank you, John.” He nodded once, satisfied.

Juliana was conflicted. She had not lost all sense of reason. But it was buried under an unexpected, intense, gut-wrenching need to please the highest-ranking Nazi in the land.

Suddenly he pulled her forwards by the back of her head and brought her close to his throbbing heat. Juliana’s mouth dropped open, already salivating with need. His free hand tilted her chin up, scooping up a speck of splattered cum and rubbing it on the center of her lower lip. It was immediately consumed.

“Your mouth is going to be quite sore when I’m finished with you. You wouldn’t want to make this experience more strenuous than it needs to be. So, shut it.” He placed his finger beneath the cleft of her chin and did just that.

Keeping his menacing deep-set eyes trained on hers, he took his time stuffing himself back into his trousers. He pulled up the zipper with equally agonizing slowness. She paid attention to every _clack-clack_ of the metal teeth.

Part of her hoped the zipper would snag on his fragile skin; the other part burned with lust and frowned in dismay when it disappeared from sight.

The next thing she knew, she had been flipped over her onto her stomach again – his tattered rag doll.

John’s hand ran up the backs of her thighs, fingertips threatening to snag the already compromised nylons. He tisked.

His teeth scraped at the skin exposed by the rips with feather-light pressure, just enough to cause her to squirm with anxious desire.

He gripped the back of her neck and trailed a finger down her spine. She shivered, fine hairs tensing up over each hill and valley of her vertebra he touched.

“Close your eyes. Don’t move.”

Juliana wouldn’t dare.

She heard him leave the room, her heightened awareness noticing every little creak and turn of a door handle. He wandered all over the apartment, clearly rummaging for something.

John returned and leaned against the doorway, regarding her breathtaking nude form.

What was it about this woman and her ethereal, catlike beauty that initiated these dreams of such startling intimacy and precise detail, down to the way she walked, spoke, breathed? And now bits and pieces randomly showed up every half hour or so, interrupting his evening of debauchery.

Worst of all, he was unable to control their appearance.

Perhaps due to his persistent sadness, marital issues, and paralyzing sense of defeat, his mind dipped into his fantasy reserve to save him from falling apart. He had never gone to therapy for obvious reasons, so these feelings had been left to fester under the surface.

He relied on the very system that ruined his life to keep him sane.

And yet…His only son was dead. His loyal assistant and friend got murdered by Joe, another casualty of the Reich. His wife deserted him. His daughters, too vulnerable to be around their own father, were lost to him.

He needed to cry, but the tears would never come. 

There was, however impulsive and absurd, an alternative solution to all this; escapism at his finest. He would topple both his misery and his visions featuring a counterfeit Juliana Crain by acting out his sinister desires in the dead of night.

What came before was just a warm-up. She was in for a rude awakening.

 

Rounding the bed upon which she lay crosswise, he tossed four separate items onto the mattress before sinking down himself. He brushed her brunette tresses to the side, exposing the nape of her swanlike neck. A hot frission of excitement settled in his core at the prospect of infiltrating her so–called “unnatural mind” with filth and making her cede all control to him.

She’d be knocked off her good girl pedestal once and for all, a slave to the effects of his purely intentional immorality.

“I haven’t yet punished you for trying to run away. For trying to maim me with these.” He dangled the stilettos in front of her face before tossing them aside.

John couldn’t wait to see the way she looked with them on, coupled with the newly torn stockings. He would be fully hard again in no time. He longed to fuck her like that, as if she were a ragged prostitute loitering in an alleyway. On the other hand, he would benefit from the height difference when she wore just the fishnet stockings. It would allow him to physically overpower her with ease and eliminate the threat of puncture wounds.

Quite the conundrum.

He decided to leave them off for now. It was just as well; soon he would be too distracted to care.

John was not normally one for props, but this particular situation required the installation of absolute obedience. As such, he knew exactly what she needed; only it hadn’t been stashed away in the padlocked chest in his study.

He didn’t have all that much rope at his disposal. He never actually planned on using it for anything; sentimentality and all. There was just enough to bind only one part of her body. He had to carefully consider his options.

Juliana heard nothing save her own breathing. His shadow obliterated in the darkness, the Reichsmarschall loomed over her.

Warm hands reached for her arms, joining them together and repositioning them at a ninety-degree angle against her back. Her palms were flattened over each forearm, fingertips almost touching her elbows. Her wrists were linked together and swiftly tied with the black rope. They lie well above and parallel to the graceful curve of her spine.

“Miss Crain, I hope you realize just what sort of predicament you’ve gotten yourself into. Be assured there will be no escaping this time.”

He grunted as he tightened the restraint around her wrists. It was an uncomfortable placement, but he wasn’t about to risk his captive maneuvering herself out of a simple wrist tie.

And her hands would only get in the way.

She twisted from side to side, testing the bonds. She wanted to vocalize her disapproval, but she couldn’t lift her head if she tried. Once she was free, Juliana vowed to claw his gorgeous eyes out.

Task completed, he raised her hips as before, uttering not a single syllable. Silence always seemed to extract compliance.

The crack as his palm hit her skin stung, but not unduly. She squirmed and stuck out her backside for more delicious punishment.

John sighed to himself – such sweet, malleable putty. All his to manipulate. 

Juliana breathed deeply and kept her eyes shut to enhance her other senses while waiting for his hand to fall again. He swatted her three more times and stepped away.

She inhaled, sex scents spinning through her nostrils; dug her nails into her foreams, clinging to the pain. Inviting more. 

“You’ve taken that well, Miss Crain.”

 _Too_ well.

 

A rattle and a faint clink disturbed the stillness. Something perhaps three inches wide and smooth traced over her arms, her back, over the tears in her stockings. 

 _This is no long-stemmed rose!_  was her last thought before the unknown implement sailed through the air and connected with the right side of her posterior. It delivered the same impact as diving into a frigid ocean. She cried out into the mattress and bucked off the bed, but a strong hand held her down.

A belt. A fucking belt.

John hit her twice more, once on each cheek, then moved back as if to evaluate. A couple minutes later, he would begin again, raining several blows upon her tender ass and exposed upper thighs.

He found whipping her with a well-loved belt more erotic than spanking her with his bare hand. He wished he could commission another portrait of her, featuring the sizzling red welts painted across her pert derriere.

Juliana forced herself to remain calm and focus on her breathing each time the stiff leather made contact with her rear, so painful and frightening in its novelty. She fought to hold back tears. Yet as the beating wore on, the searing, throbbing ice-and-fire burn caused her mind to drift.

That once strange, awful feeling morphed into something resembling carnal gratification.

Without warning, two fingers fell into her pussy. A deep chuckle erupted from the live statue of sinewy muscle gripping the worn brown leather belt, folded twice over.

She clenched her cheeks together as he let it float across her shoulder blades.

“Yes…” she hissed.

Another flash assaulted John: Dream Juliana bent over a dining room table, not his own, her back arching as flesh and blood Juliana's did now. In his hand, a long-stemmed rose. On her hair and skin, Fleur de Bohème.

 _Gypsy Flower_. A bewitching fragrance for a wandering spirit. The black and gold gift wrap. It was her birthday. His other self was dying to tell her he loved her.

His jaw twitched, fingers flexed, teeth clenched.

_CRACK!_

She screamed and he immediately jerked her back by her hair, confused as ever, but seething with annoyance as yet another one of those relentless images invaded his waking hours.

He brought the belt to her lips. “Say thank you for your gift.”

Tears cascaded down her face, running onto the belt. “Th-thank you, John.”

He wrapped both hands around her tiny waist and moaned into her ass, kissing, biting over the pulsating scarlet stripes. He bent down and squeezed her cheeks. Unbidden, she ground herself onto his face.

Or attempted to…

_WHAP!_

“That's  _not_ allowed.”

John rolled her over and grabbed her by the collar once more. He shoved his hand in his pocket and the jangling chain resurfaced like a slinky silver cobra. Reattaching it, he seized her bodily, forcing her to kneel before him.

He quietly untucked and unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off broad, well-defined shoulders. Juliana had never seen such a viciously gorgeous man in her life.

He smirked at her appraisal. “Get over here and worship me.”

 

She bent forward and kissed all over his thick mat of darkest brown chest hair, made more enticing with sprinklings of silver. When she neared his right nipple, he forced her mouth onto it. Without prompting, she zeroed-in on the eraser-like nub, sealed her lips around it, and sucked with diligent precision.

He luxuriated in the highly concentrated suctioning action, surely a prelude of things to come. When it got to be too sensitive, he reluctantly urged her onto the left nipple. She was too attentive. And yet, he craved more.

“Use your teeth.”

She grazed and bit down, tugged, poked her tongue around.

John gripped the chain with one hand and pushed her shoulders down, watching as she trailed hot, moist kisses along his firm stomach, lapping at the milky skin surrounding his naval.

Finally, she came face to face with his groin again, masked by heavy fabric but still very much present. The position strained her back, but her pussy wasn’t bothered; its juices dribbled down her inner thighs with not a care in the world. John shoved her face right over the zipper, smashing her into his shaft.

"Make believe it's those boots you hate so much."

She didn't need to be told twice.

He ran his fingers through her silken waves as she rubbed her face over his crotch, back and forth, up and down, in endless circles. It felt fucking incredible. She growled when she reached the base of his shaft and he yanked her hair back in one fist and held her away, giving her a quick once-over. He fixed her with a searing glower.

“You’re a greedy little bitch, aren’t you?” She could only gape at him.

“Answer me.”

“Yes, John. I-I love it,” she panted. “I want it.”

“Oh really?”

He picked her up and threw her onto the bed and climbed on top of her. His hair curled wildly, but his face remained impassive and cold. Aroused and in shock, she was unprepared for yet another “gift” – John straddled her and ground his hidden cock onto her face, thrusting the massive bulge into her waiting mouth, clutching the chain around his fist.

He reached behind him and smacked her clit. Her screech was muffled by his weight and steady movement.

“And don’t pretend like you don’t know what these are.”

Juliana’s watery eyes grew large but still she obediently opened her jaw as wide as possible in order to accommodate his ball sac, one half at a time. The wool held his privates hostage in a sweltering environment, which only emphasized the overwhelming aroma of John Smith’s sex.

John groaned aloud, the simulation almost as arousing as the real thing. He reached down and pinched her nose shut for a few frightening seconds and she bucked against him. He reached back and rubbed her clit as if trying to remove a tough wine stain from silk.

She shook her head as his captivating green eyes took in the beauty of her surrender, her frantic grunts vibrating over his throbbing scrotum. He dimly thought about how this might make a rather effective interrogation technique.

He abruptly lifted himself off of her and she coughed and gasped for breath, simultaneously terror-stricken and writhing in despair over how poised she was to orgasm.

He lay down on his right side next to her, propping himself up on his elbow. “I told you I wasn’t going to kill you, Miss Crain.”

He began to stroke her reddened cheek. “But I never said I wouldn’t torment you.”

 

He took his hand away and smacked the hood of her taut bundle of nerves, grinding his fingers against it with stunning brutality. 

"Fuck...John. Oohhhhh..."

This was one tough stain.

Her eyelids heavy with unsated lust, they drifted shut.

She arched her back, taking some of the pressure off her bound and burning wrists. The pain triggered by the rough cotton rope chafing against the abrasions added a layer of depth to the cruelty he had already inflicted upon her person. 

But it was worth it just to feel what he could do with his hands. His mouth...

That beautiful cock should be in  _her_ mouth. She rimmed the seam of her lips and moaned. 

"I can't wait to shove my cock in your pretty slut mouth and slide it down that tight little throat."

Her eyes slammed open. His face was mere inches away; she could smell sweet cinnamon on his breath. She could make out the faintest black stubble dotting his alabaster skin all the way down his neck. 

Her thighs trembled. Juliana wanted to fuck him. 

No, she wanted to ruin him. First, however...

"Are you going to moan on my cock when I fuck your mouth?"

The dam broke and she lost it. John drowned out her piercing cries by plunging his tongue into her mouth, relentless in dragging out her climax. She would never again question his superiority.

He gripped her entire mound and shook it, snarling over her lips: “Who’s going to save you now?”

He shoved two fingers inside her, then three, stretching, possessing. The wet slopping sounds put Mozart’s “Moonlight Sonata” to shame.

“Oh god oh god oh god…” a litany mumbled in rapture.

John slowed his movements, awestruck at the picture she made.

“Look at me.”

She obeyed, disoriented.

If he believed in souls, his smolder would have corroded hers. 

“Ask me.”

_What?_

_You know what._

She did.

“May I come again, John?

His fingers sped up. “Surely you can do better than that.”

“Ahhhhhh…May I come all over your fingers again, John?”

He brought his face close to her pussy, spreading it wide, slashing over her clit with his tongue while his middle finger closed in on her g-spot.

“No.”

“No?” she croaked, exhausted and desperate for release.

“You will come all over the bed like the filthy, depraved…”

He couldn’t finish. His tongue trilled over her plump, glistening button.

“Mmm…” He pulled the skin over her hood tight and placed the gentlest kisses there, while her walls vibrated against his fingers.

He returned to her swollen clit and teased it with a serpentine wickedness.

Moaning and thrashing about, she saw stars. John moved away and marveled as she gushed like a fountain, flooding the expensive silk bedspread with an alarming amount of fluid.

But he shouldn't be surprised. John knew exactly what she was about.

As she stared at the ceiling, unseeing, a motionless, corrupted mess, John leaned close and kissed her on the forehead.

“That’s a good slut.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe this guy's stamina? Well, it hasn't really been tested yet. 
> 
> That said, I would dearly love for John to get some emergency psychiatric help because his behavior is clearly disturbing. 
> 
> And yet, his captive seems to have found it disturbingly hot.
> 
> Now would be the perfect time for her to travel, except for the bondage and the nudity. Much easier to explain a gunshot wound, no? What do you think, Juliana?  
>   
> Juliana?
> 
> ***crickets chirping*** 
> 
> Hmm...should we be worried? Stay tuned. 
> 
> Thanks to all my faithful readers. I'd really love to hear from more of you so please drop me a comment if you can.


	13. Catharsis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With release comes realization.
> 
> NSFW (Toned down a notch. Just barely.)

  1. This is not America



Shala la la la

A little piece of you

The little peace in me

Will die

For this is not America

Blossom fails to bloom this season

Promise not to stare

Too long

For this is not a miracle

There was a time

A storm that blew so pure

For this could be the biggest sky

And I could have the faintest idea

For this is not America

This is not America

This is not

Snowman melting from the inside

Falcon spirals

To the ground

So bloody red tomorrows clouds

A little piece of you

The little piece in me

Will die

For this is not America

There was a time

A wind that blew so young

For this could be the biggest sky

And I could have the faintest idea

For this is not America

This is not America

This is not

 "THIS IS NOT AMERICA"/David Bowie (RIP)

 

* * *

 

Juliana felt like her world was spinning. She wasn’t quite dizzy. More like delirious. Floating.

Completely saturated.

Her breaths became shallow. She wanted to sit up but her muscles were sapped of strength. Even her mind.

John Smith, her great enemy, was besting her.

And stroking her hair.

The sky was layered in hues of deep periwinkle, mauve and something similar to ripening peaches. The clock chimed half past four; the cacophony on the streets had since died out.

She chanced a look down at him. He was hard as a cinder block. She flicked her eyes up reluctantly. They had already been gazing at her.

“Oh Miss Crain…”

His voice washed over like her calmest ocean tide and seemed to lull her.

She was lying on the sand and needed to dry off.

“That was very entertaining.”

The wave surged upon her and she struggled to move away to escape drowning.

Just then he left the room.

_False alarm, Jules._

He returned with a small towel. Petrified, Juliana considered he might actually kill her. Might he try to suffocate her with it? She knew now he was capable of such depravity.

Instead, he squat down in front of her and wiped down her privates, her legs. Wherever her juices gushed, he washed clean with lukewarm water, surprisingly gentle in his ministrations. He twirled his finger in the air and she rolled onto her stomach. He proceeded to cleanse her rear, the back of her thighs, over her fishnets, which luckily only had a few splatter marks. 

The brunt of the mess she made was on the coverlet. That would leave a fairly large stain. But it was of no consequence. Just a piece of fabric that could be replaced.

When John was satisfied, he threw the towel to the side and started to untie her. She hoped he would get it over with quickly because her wrists were killing her. At one point the pain served to enhance her experience, but no longer. Juliana winced when he gingerly straightened each arm. There were slight purplish-red welts marring her wrists and her elbows ached with fatigue.

“I wonder if you’ve ever come like that in your life.”

Juliana knew the answer.

“Miss Crain, I asked you a question.”

“No, John.  Never like...that.”

“My Juliana is a squirter. How delightful.”

She blushed into the mattress.

He reached down and started to massage her entire back using small circular motions, from her neck to her tailbone. His thumbs pressed into her and began to work out knots wherever he encountered them. She began to drift off again…

 

Mouths joined, an outpouring of tangled emotions left unexplored. Not as frantic, slow as the night was long. Slow as the swirling powder blanketing the city streets.

It was Monday, her second day off in a row.

John lifted her from his lap and stood her up. He removed her bindings as deftly as he could, kissing up and down her toned arms. When he accidentally tugged too hard while releasing her wrists, she winced.

“I know, honey.” He tried to distract her from the sting of the rope burns with a lilting cadence. "Almost... There we are! You're free, Miss Crain."

He kissed her hands in reverence.

She shook her head in disbelief and curled them around his neck.

“Wow, that was so…”

“Unexpected?”

“Unusual.”

“Well, actually this is a practice that has been going on since ancient times. In fact, I’m sure a caveman started it.”

She giggled. Her laugh never ceased to infect him in the most glorious way.

“Cavemen played ‘Inspector Says’?”

John looked taken aback. “No. They played ‘Caveman Says,’ obviously.”

“And how would that go?” She cocked her head and let her hair swing down one shoulder, eyes dark and inviting. “Come on, I want to hear some cave-speak.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather show you.” His hands dipped under her rear. She jumped into his arms, coiling her legs around his midsection.

“Ok, show me…Fred.”

“Fred?” 

_"Flintstone?”_

That earned her a quick swat on her rump.

“Oooohh.”

John leant over and whispered, “I love when you wrap those sinful legs around me.” He edged his fingers up the back of a thigh.

“They can do other things, too,” she blurted.

_What did she mean by that?_

“Oh, I bet they can. But first, get down.”

“Why?” He raised his eyebrow as if to say, ‘ _humor me.’_

As soon as her feet touched the ground, he hauled her up over his shoulder and started to march toward the bedroom.

“Me want to fuck you like caveman, Miss Crain,” he stated in his trademark penetrating diction.

He threw her onto his bed and climbed on top of her.

“Can you stop being a caveman now?”

“Anything for you, my lovely gypsy,” he smirked.

They made love so long that the fire went out in the living room.

  

She was dreaming again. No, she _heard_ his voice clear as a bell; more husky than musical. John’s voice.

“Say that again?”

Heated breath against her ear. A sharp stab of teeth; an unsteady growl.

“Get off the bed.”

He watched her rise to her hands and knees but it wasn’t fast enough. His hand flew to her sore ass with a sting that meant business. Juliana rushed to comply, and soon she was standing face to face with the Reichsmarschall.

He indicated the floor next to the armchair. "Put those back on. I want to see you walk in them.”

Juliana grimaced as she stepped into first one shoe, then the other, holding onto the arm for balance. She tried to hold herself vertical. The chain hung between her breasts, resting at her knees. Suddenly, it didn’t belong there anymore.

John unhooked the chain and let it fall to the ground. “I want you free. Go in the hallway and wait for me.”

She remembered stumbling to the bathroom the last time she walked in the heels. She pulled her shoulder blades – her _broken wings_ – into each other, chest out, pacing herself as gracefully as she could manage.

 _I've waited tables in heels_. _I should be able to do this with my eyes closed._

Before she knew it she was at the threshold of the room. She turned back to find John following her with arms folded across his naked chest. Her lips parted. She bit back a sigh.

“What are you looking at?”

Oh, he knew, but he couldn’t help but tease it out of her.

“The window.”

“Liar.”

John didn’t give her a chance to answer. He backed her into the wall of the still darkened corridor. Without warning, he picked her up by the waist and slammed her against it; a nearby mirror wobbled. She was forced to wrap her legs around his torso. He let out an appreciative grunt into the join of her neck and shoulder.

“Tighter.”

Juliana squeezed her knees together, ankles crossed at the base of his spine. When her arms clawed at his solid shoulders to maintain a grip she felt the the tension ripple off of him.

Without meaning to, she moved a hand to the back of his head and ran her fingers through his military-shorn curls. She couldn’t help touching them, wondering if growing out his hair a bit would soften his looks.

His face came closer and closer to hers. He seemed to sense the possibilities all too acutely.

“I’m not going to give you what you want,” he rasped, and she finally noticed how bloodshot his eyes were, how tired and careworn his face. But she would humor him.

“How do you know what I want, John?”

Taking her off-guard,  and without taking his eyes off hers, he pinned her to the wall with a surprisingly sizable erection.

He pulsed into her lazily. "Feel that?"

She could barely nod.

John would be a fool not to notice the effect he continued to have on his captive; nor was Juliana so naive. His focus seemed to shift for the barest second. Did he feel her true intent shooting arrows from her fingertips into his Aryan-perfect skin?

The resulting chill in his hooded glare froze the deceitful digits in place.

“I don’t care what you want,” he said without an ounce of mirth.

He ghosted his fingers over her cheekbone as he touched his forehead to her own. He steadied his breath, fighting the adrenaline surging through his veins. She was uncertain whether his heart thudded out of anger or excitement – or both.

John’s lips hovered above her cupid’s bow, from which he kissed the salt away. “At this moment, I very much don’t care about what anyone wants…”

 _Of me._ That thought repeated on a loop and was poised to spin out of control. Just a slight nudge in the wrong direction and he would surrender. Walls be damned.

She felt the desire flow out of his core. Not his heart, but the very center of him. Her Aikido teacher told her the name for it: _HARA_. The all-consuming fire emanating from him wasn't remotely sexual, despite all the usual signs. It stemmed from somewhere deeper.

Buried. Bottled up. Inaccessible. Beyond the punishing need to exert control by punishing her, he craved. He ached for that which shall not be named.

John ached for his family. For the chance to start over he would never get. For the chance to undo all the damage; to, at the very least, salvage the shattered remains of his dignity.

“Kiss me, Juliana.”

John’s plea startled her. And he used her name again. The facade was beginning to crumble. Why then didn’t she feel as triumphant as she should? 

He stared unblinkingly, perhaps revealing a miniature dose of his soul.

Did _she_ believe in souls? Not necessarily. She believed in people. She wished she could believe in him. 

 

Juliana did not mean for her lips to crash into his so fiercely; had not meant to gnash at his lower lip, to suck, to groan with pleasure when he returned in kind.

John had no idea he would melt into her kiss without hesitation; had no idea he would cling to her in such an alarmingly physical way – well beyond possessiveness: bordering on absurdity.

He had no idea his dreams could produce such tangible, delicate flesh; had no idea how those visions could emerge in his waking hours. 

He had no idea where he was headed as he carried Juliana beyond the foyer, past the elevator where he welcomed her into his own personal hell, a single breath connecting mouths that refused to break apart, cradling the neck he dreamily admitted would look lovely beneath a chignon. He could feel the baby fine hairs tickling his fingers.

As she pulled him into her, as his bulge screamed for mercy, the phone jolted them apart. He nearly dropped her then. John had a few ideas of who might be on the other end, one possibility rather remote. He broke away and willed his erection to cease.

Baseball. Lawn Mowers.

Jazz music.

_THROB._

The phone rang three more times. It wouldn’t do to delay; John Smith was well regarded for his punctuality.

He swallowed. “Yes?”

“Reichsmarschall. Reich Minister Goebbels. I have an update for you on our beloved Führer.”

John tried to reign in his bitterness. “Oh? How bad – "

“He is most unwell. Very nearly at death’s door.”

John blanched and turned away from Juliana.

“It may be a day, maybe one or two hours,” Goebbels continued unhurried, picking at a frayed cuticle. “There has been considerable blood loss. Part of his liver had to be removed. He remains…comatose.”

John didn’t know where to look. “I understand.”

“I am sorry to interrupt your slumber, Reichsmarschall, but you, more than anyone else, should understand the direness of the situation.”

He paused for effect, which niggled at John but he attempted to ignore this. Still, fear and repulsion threatened to upend him, so he leaned against the counter.

“I expect you at headquarters within the next two hours.”

His mouth twitched. “Yes, Reich Minister.”

“Very good. Heil Himmler.”

“Heil Himmler.”

John replaced the receiver. The strangest sensation coursed through him, almost as if he were floating from his body and watching it stare at the ground, waiting for it to splinter between his feet.

It would have been too early for Helen to call anyway. She’d need to be well-rested for all the traveling that lie ahead, their daughters in tow. 

He stalked over to Juliana, who hadn’t moved a muscle since he let go of her. Taking her hand with a somewhat bruising strength, he led her into the living room, eyes darting around, suddenly unsure of the layout of his own home. The home he had felt no rightful claim to. The one earned solely by spilling blood and dodging reality.

Still holding onto her, bringing her coiled form further into the room, his gaze waded over the lifeless pewter frames, some of them antiques, others all cold, smooth angles. He purposely avoided Thomas’ school photo.

Instead, he peered through the endless expanse of glass, pondering the composition of the random speckles below: scattered refuse; smashed in storefronts; stolen vehicles; layers upon layers of ash; bodies yet to be transported to the morgue. 

He considered shutting the drapes to block out the sunrise, fast approaching his south-facing apartment at East 32nd and Lexington. He gloomily noted the irony of his bedroom window facing Park Avenue in the west – he had woken up each day for the past six months shrouded in darkness.

Juliana, who by now thought herself immune to Nazi regalia, bristled at the gunmetal grey room divider. Suddenly she wished she made good on her plan to snap his neck in two when he had her pinned against the wall.

As dawn broke, the behemoth GNR headquarter building was enveloped in a crimson haze. John swiveled toward her on his heels, still clad in his uniform trousers and regulation boots. A faint tangerine glow bled through his formidable frame. In a flash, he had her backed against the maze of metal swastikas.

Juliana lifted her body away so as not to receive even the slightest imprint. She would surely lose her composure if she ever saw evidence of that.

His finger slipped seamlessly from beneath the supple leather of her collar onto the thin sterling silver attachment. John kissed along her jawline, winding her cascading tresses around one fist, gruffly whispering his intent while another fingertip traced over her lips: “My turn.”

 

Juliana sunk to her knees in one fluid motion, straining her torn stockings. She looked up at him and what he meant to be a nod evolved into a transparent shudder of exaltation as she undid his button, cupping him from below, unzipping the trousers and releasing his engorged cock.

“Are you wet, little bird?”

The odd endearment didn’t register, so intent was she on plunging her fingers into her folds, scooping out slick remnants of cum and slathering it on his hardness, from root to tip. He sucked in sharply.

It had been so terribly, terribly long since a woman had touched him like she had. Juliana gripped and stroked, running a thumb along the seam beneath, testing the spongy-soft corona. Dipping her tongue over the slit to lap up his own essence, her upturned eyes gazed at him in hungry devotion, catching the sunlight.

John moaned and reached down to coax her jaw loose. “Open.”

He shoved his trouser legs to the tops of his boots and broadened his stance. Never had he appeared so intimidating, yet so very vulnerable. It finally occurred to her that he was unaccustomed to being in this position.

In fact, he rarely asked Helen to do this. The notion of the Smith matriarch, mother of his children, being reduced to such a debasing act was anathema to him.

But the woman below him, the one whose tongue swirled and unfurled, a pink satin ribbon teasing him into submission; who never had to be told to spit on her hands and eek out his torment, fist over tiny fist; the very same temptress who braced her hands at the backs of his thighs and engulfed his shaft whole; who nuzzled at his wiry dark hairs and didn’t balk when John gathered her hair atop her head and guided his member all the way to the back of her throat – she belonged there.

He knew her. He knew she could withstand everything he could throw at her. So what was a little vulgarity?

He began to pump his hips into her mouth.

“Fuck you, oh fuck you...”

Juliana moaned, eager to hear what other lewd expressions he could come up with.

“Shitfaced little prick.”

Then again, some lines just couldn’t be crossed. Yet John wouldn’t relinquish his hold. 

“Arsenic is highly underrated. Basically undetectable…”

Now she was outright panicking, trying to pull out of his grasp. This only prompted him to grip her hair tighter and plunge into her dripping mouth with frightening determination.

It was at this point he began to prattle, quite uncharacteristically, as if talking himself to orgasm. And she wasn't prepared for the onslaught.

“I had no fucking choice. All those lives...the bodies. The blood I spilt. For nothing. Look what you did to me...my family...my _son_. You’ve taken everything. But you won’t...you won't take me alive. I will come for you…I will destroy you…all of you..."

Juliana had by now started digging her nails into his thick, almost impenetrable thighs with such tenacity she knew she had broken one or two. Miraculously he slowed, gulping and panting, chest heaving with supreme exertion.

“Beautiful, broken bird…sucking me off so well," he meandered. “Which tree did you fall from?”

He abruptly pulled himself from her mouth. Drool streamed past her lips onto her chest. He took some of the bubbling saliva and swirled it around a nipple, twisting clockwise, and back.

“You’re going to tell me everything. You’re going to tell me everything you know, you little slut…worming your way into my mind. Invading my dreams. I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep anymore…”

John was becoming completely unhinged. Of course this had been the plan all along, but it sat heavy and dull in the pit of her stomach.

He sheathed himself within her mouth entirely, propelled by the lust of a man out for blood, numb to all else. "You will show me. I have no one left, nothing…”

An echo of those same words, lanced with the burden of helplessness. Juliana said as much to Hawthorne. 

With every utterance, John Smith's armor fell away. She took pity on the man, begging to be blinded to the bleakness of life, returning again and again to the very place he vowed to silence through obedience. She took pity on what was left of him.

“Should have torched it myself, fucking monstrosity. Took it all away. I will break every bone in his fucking body…”

Himmler. Of course.

John looked down at her, rage and anguish and insomnia written into his bloodshot gaze, now an unnatural green.

She opened up her throat to let him sink further into her depths, her nails no longer clinging, now massaging the tension out of his muscles. Her lashes fluttered, at peace with her fate; whatever it was had to be better than what he faced.

He took hold of the back of her head and pressed her deep into his groin. His scent, so overwhelming; his dominance resurging – a reassuring constant.

He pushed her back and let his cock bounce over her face. Juliana smiled at his playfulness. John raised an eyebrow. He held his cock just out of reach, pressed up against his abdomen, its length skirting the base of his navel. She tugged on his sac, tongue leisurely lapping its way across the surface of the ripe stone fruits.

The sun’s rays were setting the facade of the GNR building alight. At this sight, he cringed and emitted a primordial growl. Juliana actually did protest when he began to shove first one ball into her mouth, then the other, cheeks sore and bulging.

“I know you can take it. Take it, pretty girl…”

Her moan felt like a melody. His eyes closed as he threw his head back, urging her on, desperate to rid himself of this ecstasy with every unforgiving stroke. Juliana’s neck strained in the awkward position as she hummed and moaned and sucked him to completion.

John knew she would help him, just as he had helped her. By pure reflex, he ran a forefinger over her right forehead where a bump once lay. She deserved so much better than this. What had happened to him?

This was his final thought before he all but ripped her from his body, rushing to pry her mouth open, belying the gentleness he would have preferred to show her. Amidst the raw disgust he felt for the source of his livelihood, he fed her his seed: jagged, explosive.

Catharsis.

 

He stumbled backward until his heavy legs banged into the television set. He turned and braced himself as he panted, sweat shimmering, the grandeur of the full sun magnifying his masculine glory. A half hour earlier and he would have allowed it to fortify him and puff out his chest, head held high. But that man had vanished.

Now he wilted in the sun.

Juliana had barely swallowed when she felt her weight give out and she sunk to the floor in a heap. John roused himself enough to tuck his softening member into his pants. He turned away from her and whisked something from the table.

Barely acknowledging her presence, save for a muttered “thank you,” he shielded the object in his arms, turned down the hall and shuttered himself inside his study.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is was a climactic chapter. Much of my story developed around the idea of John giving the finger to the Reich in the best (and filthiest) way possible (yes, that scene in front of the window has been on my mind a long, long, ever so long time). I love the idea of John the romantic but I always wanted to rip open that frigid exterior of his and let his sexual demons loose, and who better to let out his frustrations than artful dodger Juliana Crain? Sometimes we have to strip everything away to reveal who we truly are, even if it hurts us, or others. 
> 
> It seems Juliana got what she wanted after all - the proud Reichsmarschall reduced to wallowing in personal tragedy. And yet, despite the downright disturbing nature of recent events, the pull between them is real, and Juliana is left in a sort of emotional limbo. Should she leave him alone, or just leave altogether? Would you?
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's stuck with the story because I know when it started to get a bit too intense, I lost some of my readership. I guess that's the price you pay for going to dark places. 
> 
> Please drop me a line in the comments section below - eager to know your thoughts!


	14. Enlightenment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John fears for his life and bares everything.
> 
> Everything. (NSFW)
> 
> Reviews welcome!

**_“Our life is an apprenticeship to the truth that around every circle another can be drawn; that there is no end in nature, but every end is a beginning; that there is always_ _another dawn risen on mid-noon, and under every deep a lower deep opens…Everything looks permanent until its secret is known."_**

 

 from the essay “Circles” by Ralph Waldo Emerson

* * *

  

Juliana’s body lie crumpled in a heap, arms curled beneath her head on the carpet, legs sprawled over the marble tile. A sliver of light pierced the gloom where she had hastily forced shut the drapes before succumbing to an all too brief slumber. The sunlight had never felt so jarring, though its rays warmed her near naked form considerably. She winced as she crawled away from the window, or tried to. No matter which way she moved, it ached.

It took a couple of tries to stand fully upright, and she, in her battered condition, stepped forward and nearly tripped – those obnoxious heels. Kicking out of them quickly she massaged her arches and headed for the bathroom.

John had made sure to obliterate the simple chain lock; the door barely clung to the frame by its busted hinges.

Her reflection was debauchery personified: hair more than a bit mussed, tangled in places; dried white patches resting in the cleft of her chin; dark under eye circles; yellow and violet bruises marring her left collar bone, reminding her of the pansies growing in her mother’s window box; tiny indentations wherever John bit into her; hickeys wherever his impatient mouth had sucked.

She counted to three before turning around and her lips trembled at the sight of the pulsating, raised welts and general blotchy redness branding her tender ass like a blaring stop light. However, she noted that he seemed to strike her evenly and never went overboard. Throughout everything, he never once drew blood. A strange but fascinating detail. 

As she rinsed her mouth and carefully washed her hands, flashbacks from the past few hours, skewed by the twisted physiology of sleep deprivation, gnawing hunger for just about any scrap of food and burning pain in every conceivable area of her body, spun through her mind like the wheel in a rigged game of roulette.

Juliana recalled the precise moment of impact when the stiff leather snapped across her untried flesh. All because she followed her instinct to flee. She squeezed her tender thighs together, protective of the deeper internal bruising courtesy of John’s repetitive slamming of a wine bottle, now nowhere to be seen. For good, she hoped. That was the worst out of everything. Not only because it was hardly consensual and rather rough, but because the bastard used a popular German wine. Nazi wine, driven into her as if she were a product on an assembly line. As if that would ever induce compliance from her.

She wiped away the first stirrings of traitorous tears. Emotion should hold no place in her life anymore. It had gotten her nowhere fast.

He himself held off from fucking her. He never crossed that line, and for that she was grateful. But had he not broken down emotionally, would he have made the attempt? John’s desire was so fierce and frightening. Would she have been able to fight him off? Or worse – would she have enjoyed every damned minute?

Her temples throbbed and she quietly pulled open the medicine cabinet above the sink. There were the usual suspects: various adhesive bandages, peroxide, iodine, tweezers, and toothpaste. At this point, any painkiller would do.

When she located both paracetamol and aspirin, she noticed three prescription bottles; each label bore Helen’s name.

Librium. Dexamyl. Imipramine. 

That poor, broken woman. But it was none of her business. 

Juliana popped two paracetamol, as well as one Dexamyl for enhanced focus and alertness; she needed her wits about her more than ever. There was some discomfort when swallowing the pills, no doubt aided by John’s impressive size.

She wanted to smack herself for craving its presence still.

With Helen’s eventual return in mind, Juliana practically tore off what remained of her risque outfit, more befitting an expensive prostitute than something any wife of a Nazi official would wear. The thin nylon of her stockings, now tattered beyond recognition, were basically glued to her thighs; she had to tug at her skin quite a bit to remove them. She balled them up with great relish and they sailed into the trash. The collar slipped off easily enough and landed atop the hosiery, lacy blue garter belt, and jagged pieces of broken mirror. She performed a quick sponge bath with a washcloth and donned her plain yet comfortable cotton bra and panties, prison jumpsuit and canvas slip-ons. Thankfully, everything was intact. Thus garbed, it was time to set her hair to rights.

Her hand hovered over Helen’s fancy brush but she couldn’t bring herself to taint it with her husband’s remnant. She smiled sadly at the slight poetic justice she felt as she dragged John’s tortoise shell comb through her snarls; one stubborn knot broke a couple teeth. She eschewed her complicated braid and tied her hair back into a flimsy, frizzy ponytail.

She was through pleasing the Reichsmarschall.

 

He wouldn’t be getting any sleep before he had to make his way to headquarters. There was nothing for it. But at least the tears came.

A man of action does not make a habit of crying. He inhales his grief like an impassive mountain; lets the unshed drops drip down the caverns of his heart. All men do have hearts, no matter what so many would like you to believe. Stony or not, they all have the capacity to break.

John Smith’s was practically pulverized. 

Never one to wallow in self-pity and regret, John chastised himself every time he catered to his sensitive side. He was many things: Decisive. Unforgiving. Menacing. Quite literally bone-crushing where required.

In retrospect, remaining an Obergruppenführer for life would not have been so dreadful. Life was rarely perfect but manageable, that is until he played the hero and exposed the attempted coup. After being exalted before the packed Volkshalle, he morphed into Himmler’s de facto errand boy. This pathetic shrimp of a politician, along with sickening Dr. Mengele and his unsettling experiments, were more diabolical than he could ever fathom becoming himself.

And so, he reluctantly let the tears stream down, more a steady trickle than a torrent. He unconsciously swiped at his cheek with the sleeve of Thomas’ favorite shirt, a tan polo with black stripes. Over the past six months or so, he had developed a closer relationship with that piece of clothing than his own wife, along with the black and white version of his son he couldn’t reach.

These days the film of Thomas watching the boats whizzing by was, given Erich’s murder and Helen’s erratic behavior, the closest thing he had to a friend. Loyal to its owner as Max had been, it almost never left its place in the projector. He was surprised the celluloid hadn’t gotten tangled after so much use.

When Himmler last asked about his progress with the films, he weaved a lie about his being on top of things. As usual, he would be expected to compile a report detailing his findings. But instead of documenting every film he viewed and reorganizing his notes into concise observations and deductions, he created idle doodles – trees, stars, completely at random. He was no artist, but it reduced some of the tedium of doctored war footage spliced with fictitious news headings, smiling couples, a handsome young President on a yacht, and so forth. John tried to convince himself the people in these films were self-indulgent degenerates, with their unkempt hair and skirts that bared way too much thigh for his liking.

Such willful decadence.

_His hands groped at a tiny blue dress; tugged it high over slender hips._

John tore at the ever tightening collar at his throat.  

 

To reassure herself her captor was plenty occupied, Juliana tiptoed down the hall and pressed her ear against the solid mahogany door. The aroma of tobacco hit her before anything else, and she momentarily recalled the last time she had a decent smoke, with Wyatt and her new friends and compatriots; men she would never betray. Every sound was muted, save for the switch of a cigarette lighter and the unmistakable whir of a film projector. A murky yellow light emerged from the crack beneath the door.

What could he be watching in there? Maybe a home movie of his family. Again, it was not her business to pry. But in light of the recent "festivities," perhaps it was.

Never, ever trust a Nazi.

Regardless of the content of that film, she had better things to do and owed John nothing but feelings of contempt. There was a very high probability that if she came face to face with him again he might continue his amorous assault. Juliana got about two feet away from the door when the projector abruptly shut off, but she kept walking and failed to hear John’s low moan of distress.

A few minutes later, sitting on the living room couch with her legs crossed, back ramrod straight and hands resting palms-up on her knees, Juliana’s eyes drifted shut. She paced her breath and began to concentrate on the various blips of memory bathing the forefront of her mind:

_I’m coming, Trudy. I can’t wait to see you. Let’s listen to that nutty record collection of yours. I’ll be there soon, Trudy. Trudy. Trudy…_

 

His face was so numb he didn’t know how heavily he was crying until huge salty droplets collided with the glass – right over his smug-faced visage. Who was he sorrier for – Thomas or himself? John remembered how proud he was having that father-son portrait taken – two loyal servants of the Reich to the death. His stomach churned as he glared. He couldn’t help comparing the rigid devotion of the two figures in the portrait trapped in uniformed perpetuity, with the fluid joviality expressed in the film that ran before him now. He just could not reconcile the difference.

He brought Thomas’ school photo close to his face. His son’s purity was edged with a sense of purpose stamped across his smooth visage, so Aryan like his own, the likes of which he never possessed growing up a child of the 1920s and 30s. The kind of ebullience and joy that John had experienced – such as when he finally acquired that pet turtle and hid him underneath his bed, sneaking him out to play with after bedtime – eluded his only son. It made his heart twist such that his entire chest area became tender. The heartache was that immense.

He took another long drag of his third cigarette that hour and picked up the fishing photo – the first time Thomas caught a rainbow trout. This was, and always should have been, his Thomas. A boy enjoying quality time with his dad, soaking up the great outdoors to become a man the way John’s father taught him. And his father before him. And so on.

_"In war, as in life, sacrifices have to be made."_

Ashes too weighty to be kept horizontal sprinkled over Thomas’ face like peppery snowfall as John was struck with a bout of nausea so powerful he almost bent to retch into the wastepaper basket. His constitution was that of a man at least ten years younger, even considering his many years as a smoker; he rarely got sick. Never once did he catch a whiff of disease while serving in the Solomon Islands, nor during his entire tenure as an SS officer.

This queasiness was not unlike what he experienced upon awakening from watching those bloated bodies bobbing before him in the lake. It seemed the more idyllic the dream started out as, the more gruesome the ending. His skin oozed with sorrow and rage. Somehow, whether fully lucid or fast asleep, his dream fixtures of Thomas became tainted, leaving him hollow. 

And admittedly, so very ashamed.

With shaking hands he stubbed out the cigarette and strove to clean off the soot as best he could. But his constant rubbing made the darkness settle into place. He was obliterating Thomas’ face. His smile.

 

_BOOM! CRASH!_

_PING! PING! PING!_

Just as suddenly as it jerked into motion, the carousel of imagery in her head ground to a screeching halt. Juliana was livid. Why must something always happen to impede her progress?

In seconds she found herself entering the dimly lit hallway. However as soon as she raised her hand to rap on the door, the sharp, confident words clenching on her tongue seemed to evaporate.

_SMASH!_

 

The moment the glass hit the ground a soul shattered. The sudden chill crawling up his spine could not be attributed to anything else.

The knock startled him and he jumped back, boots pulverizing the already broken shards. He stood stock still, a rapid fluttering in his chest.

_Helen?_

No, this knock was softer, almost guarded. He tamped down his disappointment and stepped around the mayhem strewn across the floor. He rubbed the moisture out of his eyes and adjusted his shirt before opening the door a crack. Juliana, now fully dressed, stared up at him. He could have been a leper for all his reluctance to pry open the door any more than a few inches. She tried to look past the slim opening but as usual was drawn to his face.

Indeed, he seemed to shrink back into the shadows, except the glow from the projector illuminated his truly haggard appearance. What a transformation insomnia could have on a face, even one as notoriously handsome as John’s. A scattering of black and grey hairs along his angular jaw; red-rimmed eyes, irises reminiscent of moss and dead leaves. Just as she was about to turn away John surprised her by stepping to the side and inviting her to cross the threshold into his inner sanctum.

She dipped her head down and curled her hair behind her ear, catching a stray strand or two in the bandage she’d neglected to change. Her weary gaze lifted and she gasped – the place was a total wreck. Over a hundred film canisters, some with their contents spilling out like the guts of a dying soldier; the hideous swastika lamp yanked from the end table and propelled halfway across the room, accounting for the darkness that blanketed the already bleak surroundings. 

Curtains of brown suede and sheer fawn were pulled taut, all the windows shut, lending the spacious office an oppressive, almost claustrophobic humidity.

John, unseeing, crunched right through the glass backwards and sunk into the leather couch, watching her squat down to clean up the broken shards. “Just leave it.” He shoved his hand through his mussed up curls and tugged on a patch that spiked out above his ear. “It’s my mess. I should be the one to clean it up.”

The intonation spoke of resignation and near apathy. Perhaps a stiff shot of whiskey or vodka would sooth him. But she didn’t want to presume, nor touch his property.

Or further encourage him to pick up where they left off. While he had gone above and beyond in his sexual brutality, what frightened her more was the unpredictability of his actions – and that of her own emotions.

She stood and self-consciously smoothed down the front of her jumpsuit. It was awkward to stand there and be looked not into, but through, as if she were a specter coming to guide him from earth to hell (though she doubted he believed in that sort of thing). She turned away to leave only to be halted by the haunted, almost disembodied rasp in his voice:

“Come sit over here, Juliana.” He patted the spot next to him on the couch.

Juliana hesitantly lowered herself onto the well-worn leather sofa a good foot away from John. She grimaced in pain but he paid that no mind. She could tell he was struggling with how to address her, and it wasn’t due to what had just transpired between them.

His peculiar silence and behavior unnerved her. 

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” 

He laughed in the way one does when all is lost, a sheen of fresh perspiration making his forehead gleam from the light of the stalled projector. “What is it with you people and spectral phenomena?”

He appeared completely immune to her astonishment when she finally beheld the film, which he had paused on an otherworldly version of John, huddled next to his son, toasting with bottles of soda pop. Tagomi-san had mentioned the constant presence of unfamiliar foods and drinks such as Twinkies, Cracker Jacks and, especially, Coca-Cola in the world where the Allies won.

A mischievous twinkle replaced his hardened gaze, tinted in grayscale, but just as dazzling. His perfectly positioned uniform cap had been replaced by the jaunty tilt of a light-colored fedora. Thomas looked just the same, only more carefree and relaxed.

She was utterly transfixed.

The bricks locked into place. John  _had_ seen. He _did_ know. But he was far from elated. He clutched at the tight surface of the armrest, diaphragm rising and falling with the cadence of a sideways pendulum. Once artless in the throes of his ecstasy, his demeanor had completely altered to that of a neurotic. She couldn’t help but stare as the leg she had purred against earlier bounced around like a jackhammer.

“I barely got through half of one box. So much for dedication.” He sighed, motioning to the haphazard destruction. If he had put in a bit more effort, it might have rivaled Hawthorne’s dusty old stockroom.

“Had I kept going, I never would have stopped. I never would have left the room. I would want to know more and more. Anyone would....”

_“Wouldn’t you?”_

Juliana’s petrified reply to the then Obergruppenführer, so formidable in his interrogation style it made her tremble on a cellular level, had apparently fallen on deaf ears. In the end, as was his modus operandi, he became a hypocrite extraordinaire. Yet she had to acknowledge that many people she showed _The Grasshopper Lies Heavy_ to were not entirely convinced by its content and expressed misgivings over her purpose.

That the imposing John Smith she once knew was rapidly disintegrating into a pile of wreckage gave her hope. Juliana allowed herself to settle into the semi-soft cushion and took in his profile. His large splendid orbs simultaneously projected from and sank into his deep sockets. Long, silky lashes, moist at the tips. He seemed almost human, but not quite there yet. She forced herself to pry.

“Have you gotten any sleep since…?” She couldn’t continue with the enormous lifelike elephant seated at John’s desk shaking his head slowly, picking up and sorting through confidential Reich intelligence with his trunk.

“No.” He lit another cigarette, this time offering her one. She gladly accepted. “I often find myself plagued by dreams. Mostly nightmares. At other times…”

He paused and roved over her form lightning-fast. “They’ve been more…pleasant.

A plume of smoke danced from the corner of his lips. In the gloom, Juliana felt her face flush.

“If I do manage to get any shut eye,” he continued, “it’s never very restful.”

"I see.”

“I know you do. You see too much.”

Was that a threat?

John cleared his throat and sought out an ashtray, which she readily provided. In the midst of tapping out excess ash, a spasm of pain exploded throughout his gut. The warm cigarette slipped from weak fingers and fell onto his lap while he hurriedly clutched a hand over his stomach. Juliana held her breath as she quickly removed the cigarette before it burned a hole in his pants.

The pants he had rubbed against her face. It was obscene and filthy, but so disturbingly erotic...

Unfortunately, the awful sensation tearing through John's abdomen seemed to expand upwards, outwards, everywhere.

Juliana knew what this probably was, but erred on the side of caution anyway. Some not too remote part of her wanted him to beat her empathetic instincts to a pulp.

She had no medical training whatsoever, but attempted to take his pulse.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

She ignored him. “When was the last time you visited your family doctor?” Almost instantly his heart rate accelerated. He tried to wrestle his arm from her grasp.

John was flabbergasted that her question would strike a nerve so accurately. His mind tried to will away the feel of plunging the needle into Dr. Adler’s leg, injecting the deadly serum. He imagined the fluid being forced into his own thigh, freezing his veins and stopping his heart. He could feel it piercing through his skin. Faced with the terror of imminent death, his chest began to heave in earnest.

Juliana bit her lip. Bit the bullet. She allowed her thumb to stroke along the bulging veins branching over the pallid skin of his thick inner wrist. At her soothing touch he closed his eyes. When she was satisfied his pulse was no longer dangerously high, she let go of him and quit the room.

“Where are you going?” His face scrunched up and he attempted to curl his body into a fetal position.

 

He fumbled for the cool tumbler Juliana held out to him, at last crushing it with both hands, long tense fingers wrapped around its circumference as if gripping a metal pole on a fast-moving downhill streetcar. Veins protruded from exposed forearms like raised rivers on a relief map. He was still quivering. After a moment’s deliberation, she gently curled her hand around his and silently willed him to relax his fierce grip. Neither looked at each other but the exchange of empathy and heartache was mutually recognized, albeit under protest on her part.

Then she began to count. “One, two, three, four,” and inhaled deeply. “One, two, three,” exhaling on “four.” Soon John was following along with her method of reducing acute stress.

Though he appreciated her efforts, he couldn’t glance in her direction. Absolutely couldn’t in his current state of mind. _Why was she here?_ Her plain prison garb hid most of the evidence of the damage he inflicted upon her person in a selfish flurry of possession and need. He had orders to return to work early, by Goebbels of all people. His sharp intuition told him not to return with her, no matter the cost.

No, he still needed her here. In whatever form she took. A whole being to hold onto.

Himmler had advised that, _"sometimes a purge is essential.”_

 _Fuck_ Himmler.

He tried. He had tried so very hard to ignore it. The feel of her delicate thumb stroking against his rough and rippled veins was almost too much for him to endure.

“Juliana,” he implored. “Please look at me.”

She ignored his sincere entreaty by focusing on her own fingers.

He tilted his head and searched out her beautiful sea glass eyes. “Juliana, please forgive me –”

“I thought there was no religion in the Reich, sir.”

“No,” he shook his head, taking in the scattered metal canisters and unfurling ribbons of celluloid. “No god or diety would sanction the chaos I've seen unfold just to make a statement. Burning down the libraries, museums..."

"You mean, just before...?" She gestured towards the window.

"Yes, welcome to Jahr Null. Year Zero."

Juliana gripped his wrist a little tighter. "Zero?"

"The clock has been reset. From now on, there is no America."

Her eyes finally lifted. "You can't really believe that Reichsmarschall.”

He was somewhat disheartened by her formality, so he returned it in kind.

"I dont have a say. I've sworn my allegiance to the Reich, not America. Face it, Miss Crain, America is dead and gone. I've had to. So do you. So does everyone who sets foot on these shores."

"Bullshit."

“Maybe you can afford to see it that way. I did what I had to do to keep my family out of the fray.”

His hand broke free of hers and slammed the tumbler on the closest end table. “I’m supposed to follow the guiding principles of the Reich, only there’s no damned order in _my_ life anymore!”

She had cracked his shell clean through.

“Welcome to my world,” she muttered.

“If only,” he scoffed, hammering his nails against the side table.

“Huh?”

John abruptly rose and pointed at the screen shakily. “My son. My supposedly dead son is right here. Right there. Look at him!”

Juliana shook her head in disbelief at the scene playing out before her. He had frantically shifted to a new topic altogether; so unlike his usual self-composed, methodical self.

John started to pace in front of the screen. “Thomas could have become anything. _Anything_. Something far greater than me. A…a doctor.”

He quirked up his eyebrows. “I had the means to pay for the best education money can buy. But thanks to my brilliant political maneuvering, his future…” He shrugged and glanced at the screen once more, helplessly.

“But I never encouraged him to. Who would he have had as a role model? Dr. Mengele? I’d not have him conducting research on helpless cripples instead of saving lives.”

He stared off into the distance, glassy-eyed. “And now my daughters have turned into little Heidi Homemaker robots. And good on them for escaping with Helen.”

She sat up. “They left you?"

“Perhaps they’ll have a shot to be more than just wives and mothers. It’s not unheard of...elsewhere.”

His visage clouded over. Juliana knew that look by now.

“But Helen… Even before this fake glorification of Thomas, she began to lose all sense of propriety. The first strike was all the pill-popping and knocking back scotch at 10 am. I would call to check in and she would be piss-ass drunk already! The girls barely through the doors at the academy. She couldn’t control herself in public – in front of Hoover of all people! She was signing her own death warrant. And then came the good Dr. Ryan…”

The ever private John Smith was nothing if not enlightening today. One hand was scratching the back of his neck while the other held vigil on the left side of his chest, clearly struggling for a proper breath but unwilling to give up on his outlandish rant.

“I swear that _psychoanalyst_ left something out of his report. He was hiding something from me. I told him I would have his family murdered if he didn’t comply with my instructions to the letter. Because I organize executions. I would have had his children shot. I’m not able to discriminate.”

Juliana quite unintentionally walked straight up to him and took his hand, leading him back to the couch.

“But it was her all along!” She handed him the water, which he chugged until he emptied the glass. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and continued, impassioned and irate. “She fucking kissed him! And it wasn’t just a ‘goodbye peck on the cheek’ as he claimed.

“John, that’s awful.”

But a simple kiss was not adultery. Though his onslaught of deviant passion could not be considered an affair, he still cheated on Helen. If she ever found out what he had done she would be horrified. Her instinct to flee was completely on point.

“And so it was me who had to hold everything together, all with Himmler breathing down my neck…living in this godforsaken tower. Tower of London. Tower of New York, really.”

“John,” she broke in, “maybe you should rest for a bit.”

He turned upon her wild-eyed but amused. “Rest? You know I can’t sleep. Besides, I have to leave for work soon.”

“Let me at least get you some more water.”

“I’ll probably never be able to fall asleep again unless…unless I’m fucking dead.”

She opened the door and turned around just in time to see him burrow his head between his knees. It was obvious he had suffered from panic attacks before.

He briefly lifted his sagging head. “Whiskey. Make it a double.”

 

Juliana returned with more ice water. And a Librium, which he in his state of exhausted distraction popped without a single glance.

She kept another in her pocket, just in case.

 

Fifteen minutes later, and she’d heard enough. Now it was her turn.

“What’s going to happen to me now?”

A much calmer John shrugged as he unfurled his sleeves. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “What would you like to happen to you?”

She couldn’t think of a solid response either, so she gave him the only reply she could think of off the top of her head – she yawned, long and…perfectly believable.

“Alright then, Miss Crain.” John drew himself off the couch, stifling a yawn himself. “I’ve got to go get ready. You will remain here, in this apartment, under my authority, a prisoner of the Reich under house arrest.”

“House arrest? You're joking.”

"Am I known for my humor?" 

She folded her arms and looked away, furious.

“I’ll call Meghan so you won’t have to be alone today.”

_To rifle through my things._

“No, please, I’ll be fine.” 

He pulled her to her feet and looked her square in her crystalline eyes. “Would you rather I sign orders for your execution?”

She thought they were past that stage in their odd relationship. “No, of course not.”

No further words were exchanged on the matter.

“Go back to sleep,” he said in gentler tone. He wanted to wipe the exhaustion from her eyes. “You can use the guest room.”

The elephant in the room started to cackle before it faded away entirely.

“I’d prefer the couch if that’s alright.” 

John nodded decisively. “After you, Miss Crain.”

She returned to the couch while he rummaged for a lightweight blanket and a softer pillow. As he was handing her the pillow his eyes bore into hers, that dangerous military green. “Sweet dreams. Don’t do anything foolish.”

Juliana toed off her slippers and proceeded to stretch out on the sofa. _Just like a cat_ , he’d noted. “Like what? Dream about things I wish for but can never have?”

_What did she mean by that?_

He chose not to reveal his churning thoughts except for a faint quirk of his eyebrow. “I'm normally home by 6 pm, but with things the way they are it might be a little later."

"What happened?"

John remembered telling her. Then again, at some point she'd drifted off. "Himmler was shot. He's not doing well."

She smiled and burrowed under the covers. "That's wonderful news." 

"Miss Crain, that's a very treasonous thing to say." His gaze suddenly became dangerous. John licked his lips as he thought about sliding under the covers with her, but roused himself before his interest became evident.

He nodded and started to back away. "Until later."

She adjusted the pillow and turned away from him. "G'night," she muttered into the silk backrest.

 

After he returned from placing a quick call to Meghan to request her services, which included providing breakfast, lunch, and a clean set of clothes for his captive, he stealthily crept up behind the couch.

Staring down at her face, marred as it was by contusions, John was struck anew by her streamlined beauty. Not plain by any means, he had no doubt that were Juliana to become a wife in the GNR, some well-tailored dresses, salon visits, manicures and dare he say it, high heels, would turn her into an absolute knockout. And yet he could never envision her thus (for envision her he did, on numerous occasions this past day alone). Her inability to bear children aside, she would find such a life stifling. Reich wives weren’t designed to be adventurous; it got drilled into their finely coiffed heads that their place was in the home.

Besides, gypsies weren’t meant to have permanent residences.

Her long brunette lashes failed to flutter and she lay in perfect repose. John never imagined she would be so sexually responsive. In general, yes. But oh, the sounds she made when he stroked her clit…how her reluctance got turned on its head by her subconscious desire to cede control to him and submit to his every whim. Even her rebelliousness turned him on.

He knew he had to curb his lust around her but was clueless as to how to cease. He was sick with it.

“You really must stop making me dream about you, Juliana,” he whispered. "I beg of you. I have to be able to focus. I need to find a way out of this way of life, but not if I can’t forget about what you’ve been doing to me all this time.”

She had served her purpose after all, even if it didn’t come about the way he had envisioned when he concocted this selfish scenario.

Unbeknownst to him, a very much awake Juliana soaked up every word.

 

For a man who had been so aesthetically blessed, John looked like death warmed over. Splashing icy cold water on his face did nothing to minimize the bags or the dry, tight crow’s feet skating over the lavender-tinged hollows of his eyes. John swung open the medicine cabinet door, not really knowing what he was searching for.

Librium. Dexamyl. Imipramine.

He studied each name with mutinous discontent before pulling out the Librium. Hands faltered as he considered the tiny white poison apples through the brown-tinted walls. He fairly seethed. Holding one of Helen’s prescription bottles was akin to handling a poisonous plant. All these evil medications had herbal origins, after all, and the Nazis made sure to mass produce them too keep all their women in line.

_Women like Juliana Crain, with those black net-covered legs exposed...how was he expected to drive like that and not cause an accident of some sort? He was a man!_

The cabinet door was slammed shut. He was really growing weary of these strange thoughts and visions popping in and out. And like it or not, he had to return to his miserable excuse for a job. 

John shed his pants with haste. He slid open the shower door, blearily groping at the faucet, suddenly forgetting which handle ruled which temperature setting. He stepped in quickly and aimed the shower head at his face.

 _Ahh– “_ H’ stood for _HOT_.

He backed against the tiles and swiftly adjusted the dials, letting the lukewarmth seep into him. Normally he kept his showers between three and five minutes at the most, Ivory bar soap and Prell shampoo tackling the job with banal efficiency; always efficiency over comfort. It had been that way since he entered the army, just like learning how to tuck in your sheets to the drill sergeant’s exact specifications.

There were times he was forced to go days without bathing. It never bothered him that he’d have blood caked on his body for three days straight, so long as it didn’t spew out of his own vessels. The foamy lather of Barbasol shaving cream, a few careful swipes from his Schick disposable razor and a splash or two of his cedar and vetiver-based aftershave was all he needed to complete his masculine toilette. After all, he wasn’t some caveman with no pride in his appearance. His very life rested upon upholding a certain image.

John’s body, however, craved more, so he turned the dial even further to the left in small increments until the red indicator line rested at an even 45 degrees. Steam began to cram into the room, but it was still not enough to rid him of all his filth. He yawned as he bent down and reached for the familiar green bottle, just conscious enough to squirt a quarter-sized glob on his shoulder, instead of on top of his head where he’d been aiming. Deft but lazy, his fingers swirled and swished, twirling the ends with his fingertips, bubbles caressing the whorls of his ears. It had been longer as a boy, unruly at times. But after he was awarded that scholarship to West Point, all his bouncy espresso locks tumbled to the concrete floor, a communal burial ground for once handsome heads of hair.

 

Upon hearing the shower turn on, Juliana was up like a shot, shoving off the blanket and returning to her seated position. She willed away the blare of automobile horns honking, the blissfully interminable rush of water…she imagined it cascading over her head, just as it had when Meghan washed her hair. She never wanted to see that woman again. Or this city, as it was. She wanted to return to her first genuine love: her sister.

She shut her eyes in the gloom and breathed in harmony with her unspoken chants, eventually rendering the droning rattle of Manhattan inaudible:

 _"Om Mani Padme Hum._ Imbued with wisdom. _Om Mani Padme Hum._ Free from ignorance…”

Pulling wet stands through his fingers as he rinsed, he imagined for a moment Juliana’s fingers as they glided over the back of his head, tugging quite unnecessarily. She could have situated her hands on his shoulders, or even his neck. But, no, she was too curious. She enjoyed snooping around too much. A jailbird he had to tame. He turned the dial even further to the left. Water sluiced down his firm abdomen, tight from a regular regimen of calisthenics and weightlifting. It bubbled and pooled in his belly button, dribbling ever lower.

Then John did something he had never done before in his life, this night of so many firsts. He cranked that dial past 60 degrees. John relished the way the steam penetrated his pores. 70 degrees. 80. He curved his neck just so, allowing the jet stream to sting his nipples with fiery darts, almost electric in its intensity.

 " _Om Mani Padme Hum._ Imbued with compassion.  _Om Mani Padme Hum._ Free from cruelty.”

 " _Use your teeth.”_ Oh, had she ever.

Drowsy beyond comprehension, he aimed his chest directly beneath the rushing rapids, swiveling side to side, from one bitten bud to the other. Through the fog of delirious pleasure, the head of his cock responded in kind. He missed her lips already, and the delicious thrill that coursed through him each time he edged past her ripe strawberry mouth and fell onto the cushion of a warm, waiting tongue. He groaned aloud at the way she would stifle her gag reflex as he filled the hollow of her graceful throat. How she would moan involuntarily as he rode her by her still-damp locks.

 " _Om Mani Padme Hum._ Instilled with generosity. _Om Mani Padme Hum._ Free from avarice.”

John twisted his neck towards his corded bicep and the water continued to relentlessly drill into his flawless pale flesh. His back, his torso, strong, lean legs, all sunburnt from the blistering rain. Clear scalding rivulets traversing the length of his thighs and calves. He stretched his arm toward the ledge and reached for the bar of Ivory, but it defiantly clattered to the bottom of the tub. He retrieved it and lathered up his legs, his firm buttocks. His sack needed some tending to, as well…

And hadn’t she been the eager one?

 

 _"Om Mani Padme Hum._ Instilled with peace.”

He returned the soap and cupped himself from below, applying light but firm pressure. Yet he couldn’t seem to keep his body upright anymore. He leaned against the wall and shut his eyes. Subtle vibrations stormed against his temple.

  _"Om Mani Padme Hum_. Free from ire.”

John was just drifting off when there was a great deal of clanging from the medicine cabinet. Before he could rouse himself enough to turn off the shower, the water turned frigid.

“Fuck!” He cranked the dial all the way to the left but that somehow made it even colder. Then the bottle of Prell fell off the ledge and slammed onto his pinky toe. 

“Son of a bitch!”

  _"Om Mani Padme Hum_. Instilled with hope.”

The lights were flickering on the ceiling, over the vanity mirror.

 

 _“Om Mani Padme Hum_. Free from fear.”

In the madness that ensued, John almost broke yet another door. Instinct, an oft neglected trait, took over. He slid on the marble as he raced down the hall.

 

 _“Om Mani Padme Hum_. Instilled with truth.”

Juliana tilted her neck back as a beautiful breeze caressed her cheeks like a lover would, oblivious to the wild thumping quickly advancing upon her reverie.

 

_“Om Mani Padme Hum. Free…”_

“DON'T YOU _DARE_  LEAVE ME, JULIANA CRAIN!"

That roar, which only a soul in absolute anguish could produce, could never be manufactured. It was the loudest sound she’d ever heard, save for fireworks on the Fourth of July – more starkly frightening than the air raid siren that blared her out of a spelling test in third grade.

Now John was no admirer of baseball, but he had plenty of practice with a grenade and his aim was perfection. As such, the screen of the Smith’s television set shattered upon impact with Helen’s silver hairbrush. Spasming wires sparked, fizzled and hissed a slow death.

The joints in Juliana’s once relaxed hands locked up. She started to shiver in place. Counting from one to four was futile. The blue in her eyes froze to match the terror piercing her heart. It was happening – her nightmare come to life.

“Care to tidy up your hair, Miss Crain?” She didn’t know what he meant by that. She didn’t know anything anymore. He quickly rounded the couch and picked up the impromptu weapon.

“I’d show you how it looks with the matching mirror, but we don’t seem to have one of those anymore. You made damn sure of that.”

Fear surged through her every membrane. Memories from the night and early morning began to pummel her brain from all directions. She wanted to unburden herself of this secret that had been throwing her life around helter-skelter ever since Trudy pushed the cursed film canister into her hands. But she knew he deserved to suffer more than a little for his abusiveness towards her. She admitted that is what is was, no matter how apologetic he had been. How could such actions be misconstrued?

“I…I...”

She made the mistake of dragging her eyes up from where bubbles of varying sizes drifted around his ankles. A vivid-eyed, very wet figure of marble stared down at her, with sodden black curls and chest hair... Even his well-shaped toes were magnificent, even though one glowed an angry red. But in his haste to prevent the inevitable, he had neglected to grab a towel from the linen closet to cover his lower half.  

Juliana's eyes were pinned to where they shouldn't be.

John subdued her with his familiar glacial gaze. “Oh don’t look so surprised. That’s not what I want from you anyway. Remember, gratitude and…answers.”

He was absolutely unperturbed by his nudity; he even seemed to revel in it.

"Shit!" She couldn’t help vocalizing her frustration.

The corner of his mouth lifted in self-congratulation. “I have truly underestimated your abilities, Miss Crain. But, and I’m sure you’ll concur, this won’t ever happen again.”

With that John hauled her struggling body over his shoulder and strode down the hallway to where he left the rope but halfway there thought better of it. Her jumpsuit was quickly becoming soaked through the entire front. Returning to the bathroom he roughly deposited her on the vanity seat, ignoring her obvious discomfort.

Like Fatima, she would always escape, even if physically bound. Such free spirits were able to roam anywhere they set their mind to.

“You know, I would tie you again without hesitation. I wish I could bind you to a chair and force you to watch re-runs of _American Reich_ all day and night, but that won’t work, will it?”

Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she shrunk back.

He narrowed his eyes to near slits. “ _Will it_?”

Juliana shrugged in confusion. He bent, tilting his ear towards her.

Her mouth grew parched. She tried to form words but her mind had iced over, trapping all rational thought.

John knelt before her, cradling her head in his palms, fingers burning through her skin. “Why won’t it ever work _,_ Juliana?”

He bent to kiss her neck, right where the collar had encircled the base of her throat. The dripping wet ringlets on his forehead brushed against the still fresh wound on her cheek. He ghosted his mouth over the shell of her ear.

“You had better tell me right now, or so help me –”

“Felix.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The translation of the mantra would be ‘Hail the Jewel in the Lotus’. It is a mantra, used by Tibetan Buddhists to achieve the ultimate state of compassion, also known as Chenrezig.
> 
> The mantra can be divided seen as a whole of all of its components.
> 
> ‘Om’ is the primal sound of the universe. It brings you harmony and aligns you with the energy of the cosmos. ‘Ma’ – strips you down from your needs. It takes you away from the world of the physical and it guides you towards the spiritual. ‘Ni’ – Releases you from passion and desire. It leaves you peaceful and content. ‘Pad’ – frees you from ignorance and prejudice. You are left with love and acceptance. ‘Me’ – releases you from possessiveness. You are ready accept the world as it is. ‘Hum’ – liberates you from hatred."
> 
> Source: Cleverism.com
> 
> So, what do you think lies ahead for these two?


	15. A Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juliana is floored; John spends a lot of time on the actual floor.
> 
> NSFW

“I ask you a yes or no question, and you reply with a fucking man’s name?”

Juliana had no real response for him. Even now, kneeling on the rug before her, soaking wet and nude, he could still intimidate her. And yet he was more familiar to her without his uniform than he had ever been before.

“I need to be at headquarters in an hour. I don’t have time for games.”

Why did she have to say _that_?

She knew exactly why.

Juliana was still reeling from the electricity transmitted through her skin by his touch, that burning caress, and now the floodgates burst wide open: Gin and cigar smoke. The exchange of glances. The near-mugging. The bump in the road. The bump on her head. His hands roving over her thighs, ripping her pantyhose open, stripping her naked, and fingering her fully clothed in front of a window while her rear faced the street. The savory odor of succulent chicken with wine. A dimly lit chandelier. Dark green cashmere crumpled up on a hardwood floor. Curling dark hair; gold-green eyes that spoke of love, long before words were urgently whispered. Sensitive breasts rubbing against chest hairs as two bodies moved together in unison.

The perverse thrill of being bound by an absurdly attractive man who smelled of cedar and smoke.

There was the tiniest gasp, more in wonder than in fear, but not altogether pleased. John took in every candid response. He thrived on slip-ups like that.

It seemed the impossible was, in fact, highly probable. She knew instantly what ‘Felix’ was, but how could she ever explain such a thing to the Reichsmarschall? Visions were not tangible; words spoken were scarcely more credible without proof.

“No.” Juliana shook her head dismissively. “No no no…”

“What do you mean _no_?” John became agitated.

Juliana was herself panicking, hyper-aware of everything around her due to the Dexamyl she’d popped earlier. Her mind was suddenly drowning in every memory imaginable in vivid, vivid detail. There was the same crackling, burning, wonderful sensation. How he mastered her, willing body and untried heart.

But the man before her could not be completely trusted. And yet, Juliana could not deny that the pull between them was propelled by more than mere physical compatibility.

“I’m sorry, I can’t explain.”

“Oh, but you will.”

She nervously played with her ponytail, grappling with what to tell him.

John, still heedless of his nakedness and the suds covering his lower body, gripped her by the arms desperately, but weariness lent a frosty, detached edge to his voice. “Who is he? Who is Felix?”

How does one explain what they don’t understand themselves? Did this John even understand what a safe word was? If so, was he refraining from using one with her because he truly wanted to hurt her? 

“It’s nothing,” was all she could offer, but John could tell she was moved by whatever crossed her mind. Rocked to the core was more like it.

What made her hold onto this information so tightly? Whatever it was, instinct told him he had every right to know. As a man, not as a tool of the Reich.

When he reached for a towel and hurriedly scrubbed himself dry, Juliana got her first glimpse of his gleaming, well-muscled backside and was not unimpressed. He blocked her view with a navy terrycloth bathrobe, deliberately leaving its sash untied before turning back to his captive.

“What is it going to take for you to come clean, Juliana?” His heavy-lidded, earnest eyes locked with hers, as if to invite confession.

She was so lost in thought that she failed to notice that her exceedingly damp jumpsuit was slowly being unbuttoned until the cool air caused goose bumps to arise. Ardent lips began a determined descent down the center of her chest, gently nudging the material off her shoulders with his teeth. John pulled back enough to reach up and caress her neck.

“Get in the shower with me.”

She could have responded with outrage – kneeing him in the groin just for the thrill of seeing him topple over once more – but she was past that now.

“I already washed.”

“This is not a request.” He palmed her breasts through the shoddy cloth made from a crude fabric not chosen for its longevity. Juliana tried to push him away, but that meant direct contact with his taut pectorals.

No, it had never been the window she was looking at.

John captured her wrists immediately. “Have it your way,” he growled, the words vibrating against her throat.

Juliana’s memories of what occurred the last time he told her that were to say the least, unsettling. She shoved him with her forearms, but he wouldn’t budge. Though still not fully awake, he was easily able to overpower her and drag her forwards, a few inches away from his face. There he pinned her with his bottomless gaze just as easily as he pinned her against the wall with his body weight earlier.

While he wasn’t a particularly vain man, John was perfectly aware that he was born with certain enviable advantages and used them, but not overmuch.   

His softly curling, newly washed hair provided the false lure of a novel form of intimacy. However, the shadow of charcoal stubble dotting the rigid landscape of his notably striking visage more than suggested malicious intent. Juliana knew not to be swayed by disingenuous promises.

He tipped up her chin and played with the cleft he had grown so fond of. “I seem to have been negligent in my duties. I assure you, however, I am always most thorough.”

“Duties?”

“I’ve grown weary of the coy act.”

Juliana kept her eyes trained on his wandering fingers. Maybe she could use this – manipulate John until he was putty in her hands, but only until he left for work. After his descent into self-pity, panic and despair, she had not expected him to bounce back so soon, if at all. Then again, she had discovered so much about this sinister enigma in just the span of a few hours, often unwittingly. He was right in that he underestimated her abilities. He should continue to do so. 

If only John Smith could underestimate her borderline shameless desires. She had grown to crave his merciless attentions; the curve of his firm, hungry mouth slanted against her own; a cock the diameter of her wrist slinking down her throat like a serpent. She shook herself mentally. He would not do her in this time.

“Then do something about it. I won’t break.”

“We’ll see about that.”  

 

He abruptly grabbed her jumpsuit by its open collar and shoved it past her shoulders, scratching her skin along the way. He fixed his eyes on hers, literally asking for permission to continue, while she stared him down. Somewhat intoxicated by the ferocity electrifying her pale eyes, he fed off the feeling and proceeded to yank her sleeves just past her elbows to trap her arms in place. 

Juliana remembered he had done this before _._ She felt it embrace her, this extra push into the unknown: restriction.

In the harsh lighting all evidence of his earlier aggressive ministrations lay bare before him. He was never particularly violent with his past lovers, but Juliana Crain wasn’t just some woman he had met casually at a bar whom he might consider wining and dining one day. He rationalized that it was unnecessary for a high-ranking Nazi to get better acquainted with a fugitive Resistance member before punishing her; he knew all he needed to already. As such, the dynamic between them should allow for some bending of the rules.

Or so he thought.

John was struck motionless as he took in the bruises. Then he bent and brushed his lips against her collarbone as if her flesh covered glass; a pathetic attempt at penance for pretending to play Dracula. He considered offering her some ice, but annoyance over her reluctance to provide answers offset any concern he might feel over her well-being. And to be honest, he felt humiliated. Used, even. As he scanned her facial lacerations, he had to remind himself they weren’t his doing. This made him feel somewhat vindicated.

Just then he noticed a minuscule brown birthmark just inside her left bra strap. She inhaled sharply as he unexpectedly kissed the tiny spot. He caught the sound and leaned into her ear.

“Do you enjoy toying with me and trying my patience?”

Juliana was rendered mute as he ghosted his nose over the elastic tops of the bra cups. The plain white cotton clashed against her golden ivory skin. He wanted to remove the ill-fitting undergarment altogether but decided to let her preserve what little modesty remained. But with this woman, even the most demure exterior could be deceiving. He learned this first hand.

The fragrance had been washed off her skin but he was pleased it yet lingered in her hair. His touch turned feather-light; his rasp enchantingly low. “Well, I don’t like being played for a fool.”

John wrapped his large hands around her arms as he lowered his lips to her shoulder, planting several urgent, yet fleeting kisses. The telltale neutral scent of Ivory was barely discernible but he was too accustomed to the smell to ignore it completely.

Soon his brain was emblazoned with the image of Juliana soaping up her bare breasts with the same bar he had used to lather up his cock. It sent a shock of pleasure through his groin and he was compelled to tease her in kind. Keeping his hands in place, he brought the pads of his thumbs to her nipples and flicked at them through the thin cotton. She bucked helplessly and let out a little moan.

“You like this. You like it a lot, don’t you?” She squirmed, but he kept repeating the delicious assault on her sensitive buds.

“Don’t you, Juliana?"

“Mmm…”

“You’re so obvious sometimes.” He tried to hide his smirk when she watched him continue to loosen her jumpsuit until reaching the last very last button, directly above her navel. He splayed his hand over her lower tummy, the tips of his fingers just skimming over her mound. “I wonder if I can just…”

He swept her with luminous tiger eyes as he rubbed her through the jumpsuit, squeezing and releasing in enraging, unpredictable patterns and levels of pressure. She began to jerk against his hand. “Yes, so very predictable.”

Juliana intrinsically understood why she had invited him in so freely, and unfortunately, he was still very much a player adept at coming out on top. Well, let him think –

He removed his hand abruptly and stood up. She groaned in frustration.

 

John leaned his six-foot frame against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, blinking at the floor. “Now that we’ve established just how boring I find your reactions to be, you can tell me all about this Felix fellow you’re so desperate to protect.”

 _Fellow?_ She bit her lip and concentrated.

“Does Mr. Abendsen happen to know about him?”

“No.”

He lifted his head and cocked it to the side. “But you two seemed like such good friends.” He prowled up to her and stood very close, so close she could detect fine water droplets sluicing down his thigh. “I was under the impression friends shared everything together.”

His proximity so unnerved her she fought not to avert her eyes. Severe sleep deprivation did nothing to stem the dominance radiating off him in waves. But she had to _use_ it, not submit to it.

“Well, you were mistaken, Reichsmarschall.” She began to struggle. Made it look genuine. He got off on watching her struggle, she knew. Other than a brief twitch of his jaw, he betrayed nothing. But it was enough to keep her motivated to stay in character.

“Did you ever mention him to Joe Blake?”

She stopped thrashing about. Perhaps he wasn’t playing.

“Joe is dead. Leave him out of this,” she practically growled.

John bent down and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. The cruel, mocking eyes again.

“Would you prefer to be as well?”

He could have been asking a child if they would like to adopt a puppy. His fingers fell past her jaw and settled on her jugular. She shuddered, having momentarily forgotten he was a Nazi, not an NYPD officer. Seconds later, she had to dig her nails into her palms just to stave back a biting retort. It didn’t end well the last time she tried sarcasm on him. And his hold over her now was rather…inconvenient. Yet she owed it to herself to push further.

“Would I prefer to be _what_? Left out, or dead?”

He blotted away water from his still sopping wet hair with the robe’s shawl collar. “Well, your involvement in something you yourself admitted to me quite out of the blue rather negates the first option, don’t you think?”

He had painted her into the proverbial corner.

She shook her head and turned away, unwilling to let John Smith see her cry anymore. She would probably never get over what she did to Joe. Her voice softened with regret: “No, he had no idea who Felix was.”

Then again, neither did she. Until today.

John glided his fingers across her throat, mesmerized by the way her neck arched. “What about your sister? Your parents?”

Juliana snapped her head forwards. “No! And leave them out of this, too!”

He continued to stroke her throat, lazily, trying to ignore his burgeoning erection.

“Frank Frink? What of him? You and he had gone steady for…how many years was it?”

Poor scarred Frank. She hadn’t forgotten about him, or his unfortunate fate. His family, dealt a bad hand by a novice gambler. The silver lining was that these great personal tragedies had led to some serious soul-searching, and somewhere along the way he became the visionary artist he was always meant to be.

“How many was that?”

“Three,” she muttered, distracted.

“One, two, _three_ you say?”

“Uh-huh.”

He tugged on the ponytail in one short burst. “What’s that?

“Ahhhh…” _The son of a bitch._ “Yes, three.”

“Sorry, I just can’t seem to make out what you’re saying.” Modesty be damned. He tugged both bra cups down and sunk his teeth into her left nipple. She screeched and tried to twist away, but he held his bite in place.

“Three, John, three!”

Appeased for now, John closed his lips around her nipple and sucked. He let it pop out of his mouth. “And?”

“N-no, n-nobody knows.”

“Just you.” His lips were just barely resting upon the dusky brown flesh.

“Uh huh.”

“Are you sure?”

“I…I don’t know anything for certain anymore.”

He didn’t buy the existential anguish. “Come on, someone else has to know. Someone _does_ know,” he proclaimed while he plucked at her other nipple with his thumb and forefinger.

Juliana shook her head as much as she could while enduring his not altogether unpleasant attentions.

“You’re absolutely positive you’ve never told anyone else about Felix?”

“Yes!”

“You would stake your life on it?”

The endless barrage of leading questions was infuriating. “Sure.”

“I believe you would…because he’s your secret lover.” She was dumbstruck at his stupidity.

“You’ve been bluffing this entire time.”

Yes, but no.

“He’s _not_ a person, John! Dammit will you just…will you just…fuck…oh…” He was back to rubbing her crotch. Harder.

“Oh, Juliana, you’re in love! With a thing called Felix. What an odd duck you are,” he laughed.

“I’m not in love with anything!”

She was determined not to come, as much as she longed for the sweet release she knew only John could provide. No one had ever read her body so effortlessly. Once she broke free of her flimsy bindings, she would follow through on her promise to claw his gorgeous eyes out.

“Not even your country? Your life? You don’t love being alive on our great big beautiful landmass?”

“You’re joking.”

John pointedly ignored her. Well, not all of her…

“Are you enjoying keeping your little secret from me?” He pulled her right nipple taut.

“Uh huh.”

“What?!” He pinched it lightly and he delighted in her squeal of protest. He adored that sound. The sound of surrender.

“I very much appreciate your…candor, Miss Crain. Let’s continue.”

She didn’t like where this was headed.

“Spread your legs for me.”

“Seriously?”

“Spread your legs.”

“John…”

He grasped her by her jaw. “Spread your fucking legs, Juliana, or I’ll spread them for you.”

 

Just when he thought he would have to revert to force as expected, she complied. Happily. Though warning bells blared in her mind, she paid them no mind. She obeyed him unquestionably. But her face still expressed uncertainty, even while her pussy creamed itself over his coarse language.

“Good girl.”

He could almost taste her wetness through the damp patch over her crotch. _“What an absolute slut she is!”_ he found himself thinking _._

John hesitated a moment as a strange memory resurfaced: A pair slender thighs encased in shimmering stockings, muscles straining beneath a band of lace; dry heat seeping through his dress shirt; flesh hidden by pearlescent satin, licked by the shadows of shape-shifting flames…the very idea was absurd. If he didn’t know any better he would say he was experiencing a bout of déjà vu. Her unique aroma beckoned to him, breaking the spell.

_What was this woman doing to him?_

Unable to rein in his lust, he gripped both sides of the open jumpsuit and rent it clear down the center. He tore until he could tear no more. Juliana sat exposed on the plush vanity seat…and so utterly turned on. At least he had the decency to leave her panties intact.

“Don’t move.”

Juliana swallowed and nodded, too staggered to speak. He rose and retrieved something from the medicine cabinet. She winced as she spotted what appeared to be a pair of hair-trimming shears. She held her breath as he carefully grasped the panties and snipped straight up each leg. The front fell away. He left them like that.

He tugged her forwards so that she teetered on the edge of the seat cushion and abruptly hooked both legs over his shoulders.

“Lie back.”

She grudgingly appeased him. The position was as degrading as it was precarious.

John was about to wet his fingers when he noticed she had already done the work for him. He smirked as he looked up at her and plunged his middle and forefingers right through her slit.

“Oh! Oh no…” He encircled her right thigh and started to pump into her rhythmically.

“No, indeed, I’ve merely scratched the surface. This investigation is yet in its early stages.”

He knew her too, too well.  Her stomach made a tiny gurgling noise.

 _“Her hunger can wait,”_ he thought. And so could his.

Who, no _what,_ the fuck was Felix?

“Is he – I mean, _it_ – the name of one of the films you’ve been trafficking illegally?”

Juliana wondered how much further he was going to take this line of questioning. It would only ever lead to a dead end.

“No.” He brought his lips to her plumped up clit. She clenched on his fingers. He shoved in another.

“You did say three, yes?”

“What?”

“Take them out?” She clenched again, sucking him back into her warm canal.

“No no, keep them in! Keep them in!”

“If you insist…” He started to crook his fingers up. “Though I can’t imagine how sore you must be feeling already.”

He could do his fucking worst. Still, she moaned for him.

 

John’s erection was straining against his thigh; he was itching to set aside his vow to himself not to fuck her senseless. He scoured his brain for banal distractions.

Baseball.

Pigeons.

Fireplaces.

THROB.

_This isn’t happening!_

“Is it some sort of code? An acronym known only to members of the Resistance?”

She shook her head, delirious. “Fuck you, I said no!”

“Such foul language, Miss Crain. One would think you were raised by gypsies!”

He removed his fingers and wiped them on his robe. His lips were poised over her clit, ready to give her quite the tongue-lashing when he found himself kneeling before another woman; this one reclined on a second-hand chintz sofa while the sounds of a marching band and buoyant cheers filled the surroundings. Slender thighs quaked as he lapped up the tangy nectar. The TV announcers chimed in with their lame commentary:

_“And here he comes, boys and girls! Classy as ever in black and white, straight from the lunch box and into your living room, all decked out for the holidays with a big red bow.”_

_“Mom and dad might remember him from his humble beginnings as a comic strip character. Folks love him for bringing just a little bit of magic into our lives, whether it be with his twisty tail, or –”_

“Oh, oh God…oh John, I can’t…I can’t…”

“Are you close, honey?”

_“Yes, he certainly looks ready to pounce and claw his way right into the heart of the Big Apple.”_

_“Just keep him away from the turkey! Hahahaha!”_

“I…oh….please...”

_John leapt up and shoved down his trousers to frantically stroke himself while the woman panted, fluttering long silky lashes. He watched awestruck as her almond-shaped eyes rolled back into her head, raking her nails into the cheap sofa, moaning low in her throat. No, it was more of growl. No, that wasn’t quite it, either…_

 

John came to with a canvas shoe digging into his ear. Juliana Crain. The girl with the dancer’s legs. The convict whose sister insisted she looked like an alley cat.

He shook his head at the absurdity of it all. This is what insomnia had reduced him to – delusions. The Reich frowned upon mental defects of any kind. His life now seemed to depend on him regaining his sanity. He had invited Juliana Crain, witch, temptress, and spy, into his home – and he had no one to blame but himself.  

Enraged, he released her legs and spread them wide open, swearing under his breath.

“How many lives does it have?”

She found his method quite disorientating.

“L - lives?” She could barely get out the words. The bastard held his mouth poised just above her clit, drawing her rush towards orgasm to a standstill.

“A cat? Nine lives, yes?”

“Uh huh. Nine.”

 _Hold on. Cat?_!

“Hmm…” John slid his fingers around her slick opening. He grabbed her by the back of the head and locked eyes with hers as he rubbed her juices over her lips. She lapped it up like milk...just like a...

John held her up and let her suck on his fingers. "That's it, take it," he rasped, so very close to her mouth. "Take it all."

When it seemed like she had indeed taken it all, he trailed his hand down her throat. Squeezed just enough to instill fear. He didn't want to hurt her. He wanted to enhance her pleasure. He knew what she wanted. He didn't know why. He just knew. 

 

Felix is part of a game, yes?”

“Mmm…yessss,” she replied.

"Do you like games, Miss Crain?" 

Of fucking course she did now. "Yesss."

“But I told you I’m not fond of games.” He pulled his fingers from her throat and pushed them back into her cunt. All three simultaneously.

“So sorry to disappoint you…ahhhh!!! _”_ Juliana suddenly screamed against John's mouth. He rubbed his lips along the corner of her open mouth.  

“Doesn’t a good stretch feel nice after all that running around?”

“Ohhhh….I…yes, Reichsmarschall.” He crooked his fingers up again. She squealed. He bit her bottom lip. It was so ripe. He couldn't help it...

“How could you have forgotten already – it’s John now. And you’re not sorry.” 

“Maybe…not.” She was outright panting against his lips. He pressed his hard body into her thighs and groaned as his cock brushed her mound.

“Too bad, because I’ve enjoyed playing games with you. So far…” 

Juliana threw her head back. Or tried to. He grabbed her by the hair. 

"You love this. Admit it."

“Uh uh..." 

“I beg to differ,” he impulsively grabbed his cock and tapped it against her throbbing button.

"Oh my God, don't do that!" She let her eyes drift shut, moaning out her plea to end her suffering. It was impossible to escape his grip.

He laughed knowingly. “Too bad you can’t just tell me to stop.”

Juliana’s hackles raised way up. “Why not?”

She was enjoying the resistance play, allowing herself to get off on the thrill of self-denial. But then –

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Her eyes burst open. She knew exactly what came next. He was hitting too close to the mark.

“Stop it.”

John grinned evilly. “Not a chance, slut.”

“Stop!” He shook his head no and proceeded to massage her aching g-spot. She began to writhe around like a whore.

“No. I want to hear you come you little evasive bitch.”

She was so close, right on the verge of giving into ecstasy, on the verge of following the orders of the same man who ordered executions…

“Come…come for me…

_Oh fuck…_

She threw her head back and let the feeling roil through from her quivering thighs; let him saturate her clit; felt the effects ascending her torso, curving her spine backwards, rumbling against the rings holding open her throat…

The scream was much lower than he’d anticipated. It was more of a grunt or a growl, or a –

 _DING_!

Meghan had arrived. 

John hissed, "Dammit, she's early!"

Juliana, knowing John was too preoccupied with his latest predicament, licked her lips and beamed up at the ceiling.

 _Inspector says_ : Game over, Reichsmarschall.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After all this and John STILL doesn't have the answer he was looking for? Wow, what a waste of time spent hunched over in that bathrobe focusing on all the WRONG things. 
> 
> Juliana, meet Meghan, your new best friend.  
> John, get your filthy Nazi ass back in that shower and scrub those delusions away.  
> Comments appreciated. Thanks for reading!


	16. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This includes some backstory about Juliana, as well as a big reveal. 
> 
> Warning: This is my longest chapter yet!

  1. That purr. It rattled through his bones; aftershocks that untapped a strange, warm energy shooting down to his fingertips like static electricity. 



_Cat. Alley Cat. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. The Cat in the Hat._

John had to blink several times in order to regain his bearings. He couldn’t go into work with a screwed up head on his shoulders, continually sprouting fantastical subject matter. Not only that, he was practically panting with lust from the heady taste of her, so close to following his dirty inclinations and diving in again. Somehow he roused himself and pulled back to look at her.

He balked at how content and serene she appeared. She radiated a deranged form of bliss he knew wasn’t entirely post-orgasmic.

_The cat that ate the cream._

He shoved her hot inner thighs even further apart than before and she yelped. “Wipe that smile off your face, Miss Crain. I’m not through with you.”

Quite involuntarily Juliana did exactly that. His actions thus far severed the fine line between erotic and erratic.

In truth, he did want to slam his cock into her, in full retaliation. She went to sit up, but he halted her with a reproving glare. “Did I say you could move? Don't.”

He turned away and tied the sash around his robe quickly. He left to greet Meghan and tell her where she could locate a mop. Juliana sighed and tried to stretch her legs. “I thought you said you clean up your own messes,” she muttered to herself.

“Only if they’re my _fault_.” She startled at his all too sudden reappearance. “In any event, she’s the maid,” he shrugged, moving to tower over her cowering body. “Well well…”

He reached down and yanked the remnant that was her cotton panties from beneath her tender rear in one smooth movement, causing it to lightly thump against the seat. He tossed it into a trash can curiously overflowing with assorted scandalous undergarments and accessories.

He wore an indecipherable expression as he released her from the hasty bindings. Juliana’s heart was beating so fast she thought she might faint. She slowly sat up and drew the ruined jumpsuit around her quivering body. He tossed her a towel, which she wrapped around herself carefully. John almost rolled his eyes at her show of modesty.

She made her way to the unlocked door but was halted with her hand on the door knob. He tilted her chin up. “Don’t worry. You’ll find something to replace this in the guest room. I know you’ll be sorry not to be able to wear it again. It suited you so well, after all.”

She nudged herself away from his grasp and deadly serious set of his penetrating eyes and hurriedly left the room, else she continue to enjoy the dizzying juxtaposition of threats and carnal advances that made being trapped with John Smith so enticing. It didn’t take much provocation on her part – she had grown to be quite the thrill-seeker.

But of this there was no question: her ordeal was far from over.

John listened to her greet Meghan with a profuse apology for all the puddles. He cringed as he turned around. It was at least partially his fault. He was just tired of admitting it. He stepped back into the shower and let the bland intensity of lukewarm water and Ivory soap lull him into a brief illusion of normalcy – or as close as he could get to it.

But things would never return to normal for him. This wasn’t America.

When Juliana was changing clothes in the guest bedroom, resolutely faced away from the red armchair and newly made bed, Meghan had been busy whipping up breakfast. Shaking, too wired to think, not only from a wicked combination of the meds and the after-effects of another mind-blowing orgasm, but with trepidation over her possible fate, she struggled with the reality that he had actually caught her attempting to travel. It was the latest snag in what was shaping up to be one interminable saga of futility.

One step closer, ten steps back.

A fully clothed Juliana emerged, making her way down the corridor to the dining room. Dissatisfied with the table setting, she deliberately dragged her own three spots down from the head seat, where Meghan was told to put it. She made it a point not to sit where John forced her to guzzle the Dornfelder. The idea of him sitting down to a meal with her, after what she could only describe as an intensive, exhaustive bonding experience with a well-placed Nazi, had never crossed her mind. But she had to remain on his good side...she was skating on thin ice.

Truth be told, Juliana wanted to forgo breakfast altogether. She didn’t trust Meghan and wouldn’t put it past her captor to have his _discreet_ maid spike her food with a sedative, or something more sinister. But she didn’t think it would prove too effective against the Dexamyl, which was one-half amphetamine, and she was certainly feeling its effects. Were she to add caffeine to the mix, she wasn’t sure her heart wouldn’t stop beating. It would bring her closer to the state John had been in before she slipped him his Librium. She chided herself for not handing him both pills. Since there were no pockets in her new dress, she had to tuck the extra Librium inside one of her bra cups. If only she had stolen another.

“Coffee?” Meghan inquired after she returned with a steaming pot.

“Orange juice is fine.” Juliana stared as Meghan poured her a glass from the carafe.

“Something else then?” She stood poised with her hands in front as per usual. Yet Juliana was a pro at feigning innocence. She'd had far too much practice over the last couple years to not be on her guard about it around others.

“Um, cereal? I’m sorry, but I'm not all that hungry.”

Meghan wrinkled her nose a little. Juliana couldn’t help it if this mysterious woman went through the trouble of cooking a full traditional breakfast without asking what she actually wanted. But cereal was the safest bet. Juliana insisted on pouring her own cereal so that Meghan wouldn't have the opportunity to, for instance, crush a tablet and mix it in with the milk. And she needed to feel some semblance of control, even if it were over something so trivial.

After Meghan went back into the kitchen, Juliana absentmindedly scratched one of her earlobes and realized she had never removed the onyx studs. The most perplexing purchase of all. She thought about removing them. What kind of lunatic orders a pair of genuine gemstone earrings for a criminal he’d ordered to be given electroshock treatment not twenty-four hours ago?

In the end she decided to leave them in. Such a fine gift from such a foul person. Generosity indeed.

The thought passed idly that he might be grooming Juliana to become some sort of mistress. Was this his plan all along, or had it been bubbling up in his perverted imagination the entire night?

Though he was supposed to be firmly opposed to any show of decadence in the Reich, the leader of the North American GNR was flat-out perverted. But he hid his predilections well. The perfect husband/father trope. The tired, clueless wife. Clueless about her, at least; he seemed the type to spill his secrets to Helen. But Juliana doubted she was aware of  _everything._ They seemed like a happy couple regardless and from what she'd witnessed he loved her wholeheartedly. But she knew life as a Nazi wife was anything but sunshine and rainbows. Having to smile despite the underlying pain and fear must have taken a great deal of fortitude. 

Was it Thomas’ death alone that drove Helen to resort to multiple medications just to make it through the day? She doubted it. What must it have been like transitioning from being a proud American to a loyal Nazi wife, and later having to contend with the enormity of being married to the Reichsmarschall of North America?

Why was she empathizing with people who _willingly_ turned a blind eye to the many fucked up of facets of fascism? Just how willing were the Smiths? Did they actually agree with any of it? 

John had just expressed to her (albeit unknowingly) his desire to “ _find his way out of this life_.” Shocked didn’t begin to describe how she felt when those words tumbled from his mouth. She had to admit, though – she could relate.

 

While in the spare room changing, she considered what led her to lose her confidence. Though she was still very much a child when the Pons took over San Francisco, Juliana remembered having to rapidly assimilate into the Japanese culture. Young enough to blindly accept her role as a second class citizen, she went along with it, learning to appreciate the small things in life, such as privacy, tea houses, fresh food in abundance, especially sushi which she grew to love. Eventually a taste for milky unfiltered sake, preferably cold. However, appearances were one thing. Never once did she question where her loyalties lie in her heart.

It started out as a stomachache that gradually annoyed her enough for her to visit the family acupuncturist. Though she practically drowned herself in chrysanthemum tea, it never improved. She was distantly aware that something was eating at her formerly strong spirit but never thought too much about it. She had a boyfriend or two, sweet yet, frankly, boring boys, sons of Arnold's work collegues that she dated mainly out of obligation. Looking back upon each relationship, Juliana realized she had never truly loved them, the weight on her heart too immense for her to be capable of returning the sentiment.

She almost dropped out of college. Studying ikebana of all things. Her professor shook his head at the pathetic jumble of iris, amaryllis and bellflower, imploring her to plump up and rearrange the red and purple blooms because they appeared to be weeping. What was the point of going to university if so many areas of study were prohibited to non-Japanese students? There were no courses, for instance, teaching history from an American’s perspective. No doubt much the same was true in the GNR, though at the time she had no inkling of just how twisted things were on other side of the Neutral Zone.

What she was truly curious about she would only ever learn from what her mother and step-father chose to impart upon her as real history books were few and far between, not to mention exorbitantly expensive. In most respects they were forthcoming, but they couldn’t answer every question she had. Times had changed since the war ended. Arnold encouraged her to immerse herself in Japanese culture, which wasn’t too much of a hardship for her; they at least had the benefit of not being Nazis. Her mother, however, preferred she participate as little as possible, bemoaning how her father would be rolling in his grave if he knew he’d died for nothing. Anne did enough worrying about Trudy for her older daughter to want to further contribute to her anxieties. For her mother’s sake alone, she refused to wear her misery on her sleeve.

Far from content with her limited life, Juliana sucked it up and strove to be a good daughter, seeking out the positive wherever she could. She kept telling herself not to wallow, to count her blessings – the Kempetai could strike at any given moment, so she was lucky to be allowed to live another day. To be given the chance that others would never have. And so she went about with head bowed in empty deference to a people that never cared much for her own.

May 3, 1959. Juliana sat in the library, just another student cramming for her Japanese horticulture final. Nothing revelatory precipitated her actions: Outwardly tranquil, she closed her book and left her nook in the stacks. Dropped it onto the nearest shelf listlessly. Walked out the door, passed by the commons. Read the time tables at the bus stop and realized she had no idea where she wanted to go. A full hour went by, then another and another, until it was nearly sundown. By then the gnawing pain in her gut was replaced by cold, bitter desolation.

She walked and walked, her willowy form wandering through this food stall and that, with no intention of actually purchasing anything to stave off hunger. She craved that which she had never really tasted but couldn’t be bought: freedom. But it wasn’t hers to have. She considered walking all the way to the ocean, letting its vastness swallow her whole. In this world, the lure of liberty could pull one down so easily.

For all those who had crossed oceans to get to American shores for better lives – for land, for bread, for opportunities – the bounty wasn’t to last. Many had ended up wishing they’d never left their home countries in the first place. In the end, it didn’t matter which continent they hailed from. There was more freedom to be had in third class quarters on a hulking vessel teeming with disease. There, at least one’s death might be seen as tragic, rather than a necessity. Instead of examinations to let people in, the Reich conducted them in order to expel diversity and disability. Progress and perfection, as always a core motto of their wretched belief system.

Her mind had wandered too far out for her to hear anything, save a distant roar. She found herself veering towards the main highway – it would be quicker this way. Later, she would wonder what might have become of her in a different world, one in which she never had her pelvis fractured by the unsuspecting front end of a bus.

Yes, she once knew how it felt to be so broken. So desperately alone.

 _He is the Reichsmarschall of North America. He had you tortured with electroshock._ Electroshock. _Kindness doesn’t get you to the top. Do not give a_ shit _about this man!_

Worse still, the more he infuriated her, the more she would begin to hate herself for anticipating his touch. His commands. She never knew where he would take her next. No man had ever done this to her, and all in one dirty, bedraggled evening.

There was a quick rap at the door, breaking her reverie.

“Breakfast is ready when you are, Miss.”

Juliana’s empty stomach clenched. And now she was expected to eat with this man?

 

Freshly shaved, partially attired, John pulled a newly dry-cleaned shirt from the closet and mechanically began to guide his arms through the sleeves. He had to face Goebbels today. He had only met the Reich Minister of Propaganda on two occasions, the second of which he was accompanied by a beautiful blonde actress with bouncy curls to match her entirely too girlish laughter. He recalled Juliana’s laughter from earlier. It was subtle, melodious, teasing. He was about to join in when she launched him onto his back.

She giggled when he trailed a rose right above the curve of her waist.

 _Had he done that, too?_ He told himself it wasn’t possible. It had to be the insomnia talking.

He rubbed both palms across his eyebrows as if he could just push her out of his thoughts, even though she was only just down the hall. But no matter what, one thing would remain etched in his psyche, even should he and Helen reconcile. It came via an underground Italian boutique called La Perla, that soft blue satin and black lace number that molded to her lithe, supple form and highlighted her stunning attributes. He should be paying Meghan double her wages for knowing exactly the sort of outfit that would whet his appetite – enough to ruin her in it (which he very nearly did).

Had he ever been this savage with the others? He doubted it. There had been no agenda with them. No rippling anxiety or grief or frustration to contend with. Always on some level he had to keep his innermost feelings hidden in order to uphold that calm, cunning persona he could not afford to relinquish.

No, he had never wanted to claim dominion over someone so fiercely. Prisoners, yes. It was his job, and they usually deserved what was coming to them anyway. Helen had come to him, and quite willingly. The women he pursued all did their little dances, some with more complicated moves; longer steps, shorter steps. Dips. Spins. Pirouettes. Leaps. Hip shakes.

Juliana Crain was an illegal tribal dance. What a star performer she’d proven to be. She should really be on the stage.

 _Why_ wasn’t _she on the stage yet? He needed her to quit slinking around that sleazy nightclub so he could get a night’s peace for once with all those drunken louts drooling over his woman!_

Forget ever defecting from the Reich: these unrelenting thoughts about a woman he'd never met, a life he'd never led, would be the death of him. His goal to expunge her from his mind was backfiring. But had he ever really tried?

Juliana Crain was a prisoner. An enemy of the state. A rebel. A runner. A risk-taker.

A ravishing piece of ass that he’d never been able to fully appreciate.

The buttons on his shirt weren’t lining up properly. One popped off completely. A single inconsequential button.

Sometimes, one was all it took.

If only he had been as thorough in cleaning up as he was in ransacking the Adlers’ home for valuables, they might have been in the clear. If only Helen hadn’t gone to visit Alice. If only he hadn’t killed her husband. If only Thomas never inherited a debilitating death sentence. If only John hadn’t gotten Helen pregnant before he was ready to tell her about Edmund. If only. If only…

He had driven his wife to the point of therapy. _Had she lost any buttons while fooling around with Dr. Ryan? Paid by his wages?_

John wanted to put out feelers to find his wife and daughters, but how would he go about that? With Erich gone, who could he trust with the lives of his family, if he himself could not be trusted?

In a blind rage he ripped open his shirt, sending all remaining buttons flying across the room.

 _Superman_ he wasn’t. That was one of the few characters the Reich hadn’t killed off. But it wasn’t the comic book character once beloved by fellow American soldiers. Conceptually, it was similar. Except now, _The Daily Planet_ was _The Reich Gazette_. Clark Kent’s blue bodysuit had darkened to black, the S replaced with a swastika. His hair bleached from black to blonde. Even his moniker had to be rechristened to the more Germanic-sounding Kurt Klein. If John didn’t know what Übermensch meant then, he certainly did now.

 

Juliana picked at a crystallized raisin with her spoon, head resting in hand. If she flung one at John, where would it hit him? His eye? His striped armband? One of his ridiculous medals? What would he do about it?

What was keeping him? Not that she wanted him to rush, but the longer he spent away from the breakfast table, the more apprehensive she grew. Did he usually take this long to get ready in the morning?

She was further contemplating the trajectory of the raisin when her ears caught a few choice swear words, muted but distinct, drifting down from the master bedroom. Juliana’s hands flew to her face. Oh God, what if he had a gun? Would he kill Meghan first? Would she be forced to watch the life drain out of an innocent stranger? Was she next?

A homicidal John Smith. Why not? How much worse could it get? Her overburdened mind pelted her with paranoia. But it was much preferable to being riddled with bullets. 

When Meghan returned with a hot platter, Juliana placed her hand on the maid’s arm and raised a finger to her own lips. Before she could respond, Juliana abandoned her seat and made for the far hallway. Once there she fairly plastered herself against the wall. One leg stealthily crossed over the other until she came to an open door. She took an immense breath, spun around and –

A tall, cherry wood jewelry box. A long-sleeved peignoir of muted purple silk draped over a chair. A king-sized bed. Buttons scattered all over the ground. Her eyes swerved left.

Her lips parted, entranced. _I can’t be in here._

She was treated to the sight of the Reichsmarschall’s naked back. Utterly hairless, chiseled movable marble, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Her eyes raked his form from top to bottom with very little shame.

In that instant Juliana became excruciatingly envious of Helen. Surely not every part of him had been soaking in the splendor of _Mein Kampf_ at bedtime all these years? How much sex had John and Helen had, other than for purposes of expanding the master race? She wished the thought had never crossed her mind, but once planted, the seed of doubt germinated and gave rise to more and more unwelcome thoughts, springing up like weeds.

Such as the upsetting realization that she wanted John Smith to fuck her until she forgot her own name.

John had been staring vacantly at a row of perfectly pressed white dress shirts when he heard a decidedly feminine groan.

“Meghan, is that you?”

But the clang of cookware in the distance confirmed the petite maid’s whereabouts.

John pivoted around a millisecond too late. All he could make out was a light-colored blur sailing past the doorway and out of his line of vision. He blinked, momentarily startled, but forced himself to finish getting dressed. The sooner he got himself some coffee, the less arduous it would be to face the day.

He would not succumb to Juliana’s plentiful wiles. She was deceptive to the core and had to be interrogated as soon as possible, lest he forget about the remarkable stunt she tried to pull. If Himmler didn’t have his head for losing a prize prisoner, someone else certainly would.

Still, his mind shifted to where it oughtn’t. He hadn’t been too specific with his requests this time. He found himself wondering what Juliana would wear on a more casual day, or rather, what a young woman in the Reich could get away with wearing. He imagined it should be something comfortable and not terribly revealing. For this, too, he relied on Meghan’s better judgment.

He thought back to those films showing the dresses and skirts that rose well above the knee. Would Juliana ever choose to wear something like that? He knew the answer of course. It really should be a crime to hide legs like hers. John knew he would be strict, never permitting his daughters to flash so much skin. Helen would never let them embrace this pathetic excuse for fashion that seemed commonplace in the world of certain films. Or would she? Well, their clothing choices, along with any potential consequences, were out of his hands at the moment.

 

Juliana sped back to the table as fast as her aching feet could carry her, the threat of doom licking at her heels. She had so nearly avoided detection. Her meditative state had taken too long to set in. He was running on empty – zero sleep and a Librium. How the hell could he possibly stop her passage to another world? How did he know exactly at which point to do so? And then there was his using Helen’s brush as a weapon. That he disrespected her property so showed that her leaving him was finally sinking in. Was there anything in the Nazi rule book about domestic noncompliance? For Helen’s sake, she hoped not.

John strode into the room with a purposeful though somewhat delayed gait due to his nearly busted toe. He would have to curb the urge to limp as he walked into headquarters so as not to give the impression he was mocking the Reich Minister’s clubfoot. The once terrifying boots skidded to a halt as his eyes lit upon Juliana seated farther down the table, leaving vacant the seats normally occupied by his family. His heart lurched at the memory, but he propelled himself forward nonetheless. That was all he could do from this point on.

He, too, noticed the small wine stain marring the tablecloth but said nothing as he pulled out his chair and laid his napkin across his lap. “I haven’t wished you a proper good morning, Miss Crain.”

Her eyes flicked up from the half soggy contents of her cereal bowl. “Oh, how so?”

“Good morning, Miss Crain,” he nodded to her. He thanked Meghan for the coffee and added a splash of cream to the strong brew.

What an absurd situation! They both knew it was, but pantomimed politeness as if to further distance themselves from reality. “And to you, Reichsmarschall.”

His eyes showed mild surprise that she deigned to return his greeting at all but instinct told him it was just part of her manipulative subterfuge. They flicked to hers and noticed they were somewhat reddened, though this only made her blue irises brighter. He had never been able to figure out exactly what shade they were. Aquamarine? He chided himself for caring.

“Is that all you’re going to eat?” John dug into his own plate loaded with fried potatoes, sausage and eggs.

“I’m not that hungry.”

“Even prisoners need to keep up their strength. Go ahead, take some more.”

She acquiesced grudgingly, scooping some potatoes onto her dish. John hadn’t much of an appetite himself for the past few days, but he found himself famished today. How could she not be, as well? He hoped she didn’t think he would try something obvious such as poisoning her food. That was an amateur move of the lowest sort.

When her head was down John snuck in a more thorough assessment of her appearance. Did a double-take. Words wobbled on his lips, unformed; out loud it would amount to babble. He couldn’t look away if he tried: Juliana, in that dress, etched in his brain. A flush of familiarity, no less intrusive than his thoughts about her, burned through his system, half in lust, half in longing.

Yes, this dress. The _other_ dress, cream printed voile with buttons running from collarbone to waist. He would know it anywhere. He’d felt it slip from his grasp. Watched her shimmy it down past her hips and long legs until it pooled at her feet…

The screech of metal against fine china brought him back to earth. She stabbed into her potatoes, pushing them around distractedly. John wasn’t the only one whose thoughts had meandered.

Something had been milling about the back of her mind the entire time: remembrance of the feel of the tip of his cock banging against her clit just wouldn’t abate. She was appalled at herself. Suddenly, all the moisture in her throat seemed to evaporate as if she were inhaling desert air. She guzzled down the juice fast, her gulping clearly audible. The sugar rushed to her brain, loosening her tongue enough for her to blurt out something incredibly moronic:

“Would you mind if I tidied up your office while you’re away? Since I’m to remain a prisoner –”

“Guest, Miss Crain, you are my guest,” he said as he buttered his toast a bit too generously. “Has your stay been less than satisfactory? If you would like to return to your cell today I would be more than happy to accommodate your request.”

 _Prisoner._ Had John gotten his lines crossed? But who was she to point out his confusion?

“And no, you may not clean up _my_ mess in _my_ office,” he continued with a pointed look. “Just because I allowed you to view one film does not automatically give you free reign over Reich property.”

She would have argued back but Meghan bustled back in with, to her and John’s astonishment, a rather large, resplendent floral arrangement, placing it in the center of the table.

“Well aren’t these lovely!” she exclaimed, completely disregarding the stunned reaction of John and Juliana. “Such a shame to leave these roses in the hallway where they can’t be admired. And what a pretty color, too! They really liven up the room.”

No one answered right away. Juliana was glad she’d stopped eating otherwise she would have choked on her raisin flakes. Raising her downcast eyes to his felt like the most natural (and, simultaneously, unnatural) thing in the world to do. The intensity transmitted through his feral gaze could set the tablecloth on fire. She bit down on her lower lip and looked away. Neither could form a coherent thought.

The silence seemed to last an eternity, though it was closer to a few seconds. John was the first to recover, clearing his throat, fingers tearing at the napkin on his lap. “Well, it’s nothing unusual. We get fresh flowers delivered every day.”

What he neglected to mention, however, was that they never once received _pink_ flowers. The arrangements were always red, white or white combined with red, a statement of Reich pride (as if it were possible to forget one’s devotion to the Fatherland!). He desperately wanted to believe it was merely a mix-up at the florist’s.

He wanted to believe his mind wasn’t failing him. For Juliana, it only confirmed what she inherently knew to be true.

The intricate scent penetrated the atmosphere, lending an exquisite, sumptuous tension to an otherwise everyday domestic scene. But nothing about this situation was mundane in the slightest.

Oblivious to their discomfort, Meghan continued, “Well, I think they’re just breathtaking. You would think it was somebody’s birthday or something.” She removed some of the dishes and headed back into the kitchen.

 

The two remained still as statues for a good two minutes. John was the first to relax his shoulders and resume eating. He picked up his knife to slice through his eggs but was compelled to stop just short of the yolk.

_He had selected the rose with the tightest bud so that it wouldn’t unravel too fast. It just so happened to be the pinkest. While inspecting the blossom, he pricked his thumb on a thorn. As he wound a napkin around his finger, he told himself not to be too eager, lest he cause damage. If he punctured her skin and caused her to bleed he would never forgive himself…_

Juliana’s breath hitched as she watched his long index finger glide up and down the stem of his fork, his brows furrowed in concentration. Her hand lifted to massage her neck.

_She could feel something soft and light idly caressing her exposed shoulders. The sensation dissolved and she was left wanting. But then came the bite of something sharp and thin, scratching around her flesh like a determined pointy fingernail. Only she knew his were blunt and smooth…_

Juliana threw down her spoon, causing some milk to splash onto the table. 

 _It’s just a tantrum. Ignore her and it will all go away._ She _will_   _go away._

“John…”

He looked up at her expectantly but also afraid of what he knew she was about to ask. The all-too-curious cat. “Yes?”

“I don’t know how to put this.” She wiped up the spillage with her napkin and placed her hands on her lap, left atop right. He knew the hammer was about to drop. “You mentioned having...strange dreams.”

Annoyed, he lifted his coffee cup to his lips. “Miss Crain,” he warned, “I believe we’ve discussed this just before.” Still, the cup shook ever so slightly against the saucer.

She started to pick at her frayed bandage. “I’m just curious if they–”

He tightened his grip on the saucer, tension crawling up his spine.

“If they might pertain to…”

_Please stop prying._

She was searching for a way to come out with it before she lost her nerve. What could it hurt in inquiring? She was already his captive. Something worse was surely to come. “Well, have you ever had visions of…”

She curled her hair around her ear. Fuck, what a train wreck this was going to be!

“I don’t have time for–”

“Us,” she finished, jarringly, but relieved the words were finally out.

John assumed an air of nonchalance though her words drummed against his chest like a torrential downpour. “In what way?”

“In _any_ way. I know I have. And so have you, John.”

He had to halt her questioning. “Dreams, not visions. And not about you. Just who do you think you are?”

“Correct.”

 _1-2-3-4_. He focused his breaths just like she taught him.

John glanced at the cuckoo clock projecting from the wall. It ticked past 6:15. It was getting late, but he had just enough time to spare for what he had to do. As effortlessly as he could manage, John swallowed his toast and raised the coffee to his mouth once again. He blew at the curls of steam and raised his eyes to her. “Are you finished eating?”

Juliana looked at her half empty plate. “I suppose so.”

“Then I would like to see you in my office.”

She glanced back at him, drawn to how his sensual fingers and thumb grasped the fragile handle. The entire time, his eyes never left her face. If he was trying to rattle her it wouldn't work.

She turned to face him head-on. “You’re not going to answer my question? It’s pretty basic: yes or no. I believe you’re familiar with that method of inquiry.”

“And I believe you’re quite an expert at evasion yourself.”

She huffed. "I learned from the best."

“Need I remind you that it’s not your place to ask questions. Especially since you're under my roof.”

And she was his property. His eyes flashed at the possibilities. He really should turn her over his knee for this display of impertinence... 

Suddenly shy under his intense scrutiny, Juliana twisted her torso away and rubbed her upper arms over the soft cashmere. While she was busy picking at invisible fuzzballs, John was picturing her shrugging her cardigan down; how he bound her wrists behind her back; how she obeyed him without hesitation.

 _This_ Juliana before him was much less compliant. 

He guiltily wondered why none of these so-called "visions" featured Helen or his children. What did it all mean?

A Freudian would say he was indulging his id, the most primal part of himself. The vast majority of psychiatrists in the Reich were Jungian. Sigmund Freud had himself been executed, his extensive writings burnt, including that monumental fluff piece  _The Interpretation of Dreams._

The Reich deemed his focus on sexuality demeaning to the populace and uncivilized and, thus, incompatible with its goals of progress through defined roles. After all, grown men should not analyze potentially repressed sexual urges regarding their mothers.

But what about grown men and gorgeous, unattached, unrelated women? What if these really were more than recurrent, highly realistic dreams? He didn’t know how to handle it, and there was no one to ask for advice. He was supposed to control _her_ , not the other way around. Perhaps interdimensional travel was just another form of high witchcraft?

Without warning, Juliana backed her chair away from the table, scooching out in a very unladylike manner, chair legs screeching against the tile. She seemed almost flustered. John’s watchful eyes shot to her slender calves peeking out through nude stockings. His forefinger stroked the steaming cup back and forth as he felt himself perk up.

He removed his gaze before she could notice. “Why so eager to leave, Miss Crain?” 

She tossed her half-tied back hair over her shoulder and walked away without a backwards glance. “It's going to take a while to wade through all those films I have no business handling.”

He smirked. “Close the door behind you, then wait for me,” he uttered, low and measured, with an undercurrent of expectation. "I'll be in...momentarily." He made sure to drag out that last part. 

Despite her reluctance to follow his orders, the register of his voice still titillated her. She stifled a small moan as she recalled the way it washed over when as he groped her through her crotch. Her new panties were already more than a little damp. She rushed to the darkened room and practically slammed the door.

 

After she left, John stood and went right up to the bouquet. He plucked out a single rose, caressing a bud as if it were something else entirely. And then, the oddest sensation. Tingly, but not akin to pins and needles. A rush of headiness and warmth. An infusion of well-being such as he’d never experienced.

 _Perfect rightness_.

He had the strongest urge to crush the flower between his fingers to let the unfamiliar feeling seep into his pores. He had to stop himself from separating the bloom from its stem and shoving it into his pocket. Right next to the collar he found lying atop of the trash bin in the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so a new day begins in the GNR.
> 
> Factoid: "Übermensch" originated from Nietzsche's work "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" and roughly translates to a superhuman or overman, a genetically perfect being willing to risk all for the sake of humanity, not just himself. The Nazis based their Lebensborn program on the concept. Naturally, they took things a bit too far.
> 
> Next chapter, John pokes and prods Juliana. I'll leave it at that for now.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this update! Feedback appreciated.


	17. Blindsided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lengthy absence. I had hoped to have this up a couple weeks ago, but I've had to contend with not one, not two, but several health conditions, all colliding at once, including surgery. But I'm on the mend, and things are going to be moving at a much speedier pace. Basically, shit will hit the fan. 
> 
> Last we left off, John and Juliana ate breakfast together and nobody died. Hooray! Let's see if John remembers how to interrogate someone. (And I don't mean with his tongue).
> 
> This is my LONGEST chapter of the lot.
> 
> Veering towards some NSFW at the end.

Juliana laid her head against the door and willed her heart to stop slamming into her chest in anticipation of she knew not what. She stepped over the jumbled chaos of broken glass, film reels and canisters. Was he truly planning to clean up his own mess? Or was this another one of Meghan’s many _discreet_ duties?

Curious, she bent and carefully turned over a picture frame surrounded by jagged slivers of glass. Through the fragile cracks she could make out John and Thomas on a fishing excursion.

Almost immediately, she was bowled over by an immense weight of heartache and desolation. She studied the photo more closely, grudgingly acknowledging how breathtakingly handsome John was – beaming at the camera, pride bursting at the seams of his dark blue jacket. Thomas in similar attire; or, at least she assumed it was him. The lanky frame and sandy hair fit, but the soot-smudged face was something disturbing to behold.

Did John try to blacken it in disgust? Who really knew anymore – the man had a warped mindset. Right after she gingerly flipped over the frame and returned it to the floor, the melancholy diminished. She picked up a few canisters and stacked them on the corner of his desk.

There was another framed photo of them on one the chairs, with a single crack running diagonally down the middle. Otherwise, father and son were perfectly intact. Their pride was abundantly clear. Her eyes honed in on John, suitably pompous on this momentous occasion. Her face contorted into disgusted pity. No wonder the room resembled the aftermath of a tornado.

She half expected him to be too far gone to continue interrogating her. Not two minutes later, the Reichsmarschall swooped in, raven black and blood red, purposeful and direct. The caffeine had plowed into his system, Juliana noted to her chagrin.

Impatient to get started, he pointed to one of the chairs in front of his desk and pulled out his own high-backed chair. “Take a seat.”

She offered him the portrait, unable to meet his perpetually accusatory gaze. He nearly snatched it from her fingers when he saw what she was holding but changed his mind at the last second, accepting with feigned graciousness. Her head had been bowed in a subservient fashion as if addressing a Pon. Last he’d checked, he wasn’t Japanese. Perhaps she needed some reminding.

Juliana folded her arms and waited while he repositioned the frame in its former place on the wall, adjacent to his gun cabinet. He glided his finger along the fissure, scowling into the glass. The likeness of them couldn’t have been more than two years old.

John rubbed at the nagging sore spot at the crest of his shoulder and turned. He assessed her slender form, the vexing hesitation, regarding her with sight derision.

“I said take a seat.”

She huffed before plopping down, hissing as her raw rear collided with a much thinner cushion than the dining room seating provided; she shifted uncomfortably.

John took his own seat and plucked a cigarette from his highly polished silver case. He took his time lighting it, savoring his first puff, watching in his covert way as Juliana crossed and uncrossed her legs, imagining her hips rocking to the beat of his throbbing cock. The tension between them sizzled still in the stifling air, brandishing heat across their skin like a delectable wildfire amidst an impossible situation.

In the far recesses of his mind, he hoped there were films that showed the two of them together, if only to prove he had not stumbled into a minefield. John rarely placed unconditional faith in another. He had with Helen right from the start, however towards the end he could no longer rely on her judgment, or her ability to keep a secret. She couldn’t even be trusted to unburden her pain to a therapist without dredging up her misgivings about eugenics policies. The reverse seemed to be true of this fine-boned fugitive sitting before him right now.

But he preferred not to rely on dreams, or rather ‘visions’ as Juliana called them, in order to sustain him – to stamp out the memories of the nightmare his life had become and replace them with _her_. As much as he wanted to covet her as a dragon guards his gold, Juliana could not serve as his own prisoner-plaything indefinitely. He had been uncharacteristically impetuous last night and must contend with the consequences of unadulterated erotic distraction.

Only the most wretched of men would quite deliberately order an alluring convict to be delivered to him in an hour or less. Now she was in his office of all places, his den of privacy (and occasional substitute bedroom), surrounded by the films. This must be like Christmas for her.

“Now…” Another drag. “Oh, I’m sorry, where are my manners?”

He reached for the cigarette case and lifted the lid. They were displayed in much the same way Frank's drawing pencils had been when he brought them home from the art supply shop. But then he'd rummage through them until the H's and B's denatured into a jumbled up mess of half frittered lengths of lead, strewn all over his workstation.

She slid one out, resting it between well-defined lips. Then came the matching Reich-issue lighter, and she became wary of his eyes tearing into her own as he bent towards her face, unearthing whatever lie dormant that she probably forgot about. Instead, she concentrated on his smell – cinders; clean wilderness: primal, all of it.

He backed away from the spellbinding fragrance against her skin, a forbidden, potentially poisonous dessert. At his peril would he succumb again. “I need to gather as much information from you as I can before I leave. You must be honest and direct with me. And no lies. Believe me, the offer from earlier regarding your feeble-minded friends still stands.”

Though greatly offended, she sat up taller and nodded. “Alright.” She had to believe he would keep Hawthorne and Caroline protected. He hadn’t killed her after all. Some trust had begun to slip through the cracks. How she wished it hadn’t.

Juliana’s nerves were especially frazzled since Meghan blindsided her with the roses. Right now she had to demonstrate just how strong, authentic and utterly fearless she was, or else what was the point? That meant ignoring any feelings that painted John in a more favorable light, even if it wasn’t really this version of him instigating such miracles. She raised her chin and tossed her hair to project an air of hauteur.

John let the smoke hiss through his lips. “As I’ve just seen, as usual, you know more than you let on.” He tapped the cigarette over the ash tray prematurely and steeled himself for what he knew would put his resolve to the test.

“Look, I can explain about Felix. You just have to keep an open mind.”

“Oh, we’re past that now. No more games.” He shook his head solemnly and cleared his throat. “During our little tête-à-tête yesterday, you claimed Die Nubenwalt would not be able to transport armed vehicles, but it _can_ transport humans. I’ve seen it, and so have you. The device works. The evidence is irrefutable.”

_This again?_

She relaxed her spent muscles into the chair. “Not if only one person made it through.”

“One is all that it takes,” he shot back.

One person out of…

She briefly flashed back to the time she was herself a ‘volunteer,’ herded together with other petrified future victims like cattle about to be butchered; she wasn’t too far off the mark. She sunk into the chair and rubbed at her arms, suddenly chilled to the bone.

“True, some things need ironing out. Perfection cannot be rushed. That’s why it’s called an experiment. Don’t you remember science class, Miss Crain? Of course you did. You majored in horticulture.”

As unsettling as it was that he knew this off the top of his head, it was public record. Not much digging around then. “I did, but I never took my final exams and practical.”

“Yes, it was right before the bus accident, wasn’t it? That is certainly unfortunate. You could have taken over for this florist who can’t seem to get our orders straight.”

Her ears perked up. “Why, what’s the matter with the flowers?” 

“They don’t belong in my home, that’s what.”

“Well, you weren’t sneezing, so you’re not exactly allergic to roses. And I distinctly recall helping assemble that atrocious swastika wreath for Dr. Adler’s funeral. Right on your own kitchen table.”

Johns jaw ticked.

She simpered. “You don’t approve of roses, John?”

 

John narrowed his eyes and darted them to the side. He set down his cigarette and picked up a nearby pencil, deftly twirling it like a baton.

“What about the films? I was under the impression that was the entire reason you sought out The Man in the High Castle.” He watched her drum her fingers against the armrests, as if she had someplace better to be.

“Indeed, what about them? How can you be so sure these movie reels aren’t all meaningless propaganda?”

“I just am.”

“That is the very definition of an irritating reply.” 

At this point, what was the use in hiding? “Like you, I’ve seen myself in some films.”

“How many films?

“Several.” She didn’t elaborate.

“Brought to you by the prophet who knows all, Hawthorne Abendsen, yes? It’s rather a shame – you’re much too intelligent to trust a deranged man.”

“Likewise.” She looked down, then up at him again, those twin rings of pale blue fire challenging him.

He burned to touch her again, to feel her frantic pulse knocking against his fingertips. He longed to run his fingers through her thick, silky mane and bury his face in its softness because she still smelled like that ceaseless, wonderful dream, which wasn’t actually a dream after all. He wanted to brush off the feeling but it endured. He took a drag to try to forget and to continue this fascinating, yet distressing interrogation.

“I have some notions myself as to their purpose.” He flicked his wrist in a lazy circular movement, trails of smoke swirling, fading fast in the morning gloom. “You’ve been peddling false hope, Miss Crain. That alone is tantamount to treason.”

Juliana scoffed. “Is it not also treasonous for a greatly elevated Nazi official to express views incompatible with his own party’s principles, Reichsmarschall? And with great passion, might I add.” She luxuriated in the smooth taste of tobacco just then and blew it out leisurely.

John’s mouth dropped open just enough to cause her to smile a bit, but he also seethed. How dare she bring up that particular intimate act! His hand itched to strike her across the cheek for her willfulness. And her perceptiveness. And so, lest he follow through on his baser instincts, he began to doodle on a notepad. Unfurling circles and lines.

Roses.

He just as abruptly scribbled over them, pressing so hard the pencil tip almost broke.

Juliana craned her neck and attempted to peer past the black-clad arm blocking her view of whatever he was drawing. Or rather, obliterating.

Without raising his head, he got to the point. "Tell me what you saw in these films, Miss Crain. And be detailed about it.”

When had he said this to her before?

Oh. _Oh._ When she’d accidentally requested a punishment. When he violated her body with an empty wine bottle.

Juliana hesitated briefly. Was she making a colossal mistake in divulging all of her own sensitive information to this lunatic?

_"Do you think you can trust me, Juliana?”_

She mentally shook off the tenderness, the urgency of another man’s voice. She clasped her hands together on her lap, head tilted beneath John’s eye line, attempting to control her breathing without prompting suspicion. Juliana had long accepted the legitimacy of what she told John were visions, but were actually memories; treasures beyond compare.

“One film showed me outfitted in military gear, wandering through a forest with a fully loaded rifle. I came upon a sign that read ‘Verboten’.”

Juliana kept another version of that scenario close to her vest. If the first film was the _before_ , the second revealed a veritable wasteland; the sign hidden beneath layers of dirty, sooty ash. She was portrayed as injured: hobbling along, lacerations on her face similar to those she now bore. In the film, she was fortunate enough to have escaped the Nazi’s clutches. She could have destroyed them. The thought warmed her considerably.

John nodded. “Naturally you decided the best course of action would be to trespass.”

“Naturally,” she shrugged. She wasn’t about to question why it felt so good to unburden herself to John Smith. Their game of predator and prey was close to being played out anyway. She took a long drag of her cigarette before tapping it into the ashtray. “I had a vision directly after that just so happened to reveal where Die Nubenwalt was hidden, deep in the Poconos in Lackawanna Coal Mine #9.”

“So, you were able to ascertain the precise location of the device using only these visions of yours and a map? But how would you be able navigate the passageways undetected with all those loyal young guards milling about? You’d need help from a local to pull that off.” He sighed. “I will require his or her name and physical description.”

Milling. Mills. _Julia Mills_. He wished she hadn’t cut her hair so soon after making their acquaintance but he understood the need to recreate her image. Still, beautiful was beautiful.

He remembered driving her to her new dormitory, wearing a casual trench coat paired with a blue button-down and trousers that only saw the light of day on Saturdays and Sundays. That had been a rather eventful day for him. Well, harrowing would be putting it mildly. The old demons threatened to return. But it had to be done for his son’s sake.

He would kill Dr. Adler all over again, no question.

_He would drive her to her apartment, night after night just to hear her thank him with that sweetly sultry voice of hers. He wondered where on her body she dabbed that perfume…_

"I’m sorry, I don’t recall.”

John was jolted out of his reverie. “Well, I’m sure it will come to you. Let’s move on, shall we?” he inquired cryptically. He shuffled some papers and placed them in his brief case.

He folded his hands before him and straightened his posture. “Two nights ago, I met with Trade Minister Tagomi, who informed me that there are ways to access parallel worlds without having to utilize a man-made portal. That’s a strange claim, don’t you think?”

Juliana coughed profusely as the once calming smoke got stuck in her throat. Now Tagomi had to be brought into this hell? Wasn’t it bad enough that he was targeted by Himmler? How many times must she, albeit indirectly, ruin – or _end_ – the lives of those she cared about most? At least Frank seemed to be faring well, despite his permanent limp and disfiguring scars.

The night they made love for the last time had brought her closure, and he seemed to accept that their own story had run its course. He was alive, safe and loved by many. He seemed gratified to have found his calling. To have a purpose was all that really mattered in life.

“And why would you need to meet with him?”

“You know that’s classified.”

“Well, so is my knowledge.”

John leaned forwards a little. “I’m really tiring of your insubordination, Miss Crain,” he rasped. “As you’ll recall, I’m the one who asks the questions. You’re the one who politely replies and obeys my commands in order to avoid consequences. Why hasn’t this sunken in yet?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she replied, stubbing out the spark.

“Before I start making unpleasant phone calls, you will tell me more about your relationship with the Trade Minister. You were his assistant for a brief period last year and then…”

“We became close friends.”

“How close?”

“We found we both shared similar interests, views on life. I can’t really put it into words. There was an undeniable connection. Hawthorne said we shared a special bond, and he was right.”

“That’s very touching. But I’m not here for that.” John kept his eyes trained on hers as if waiting for her to lose her balance on a tightrope. “Continue.”

Juliana gathered her racing thoughts. She wished she could be evasive but it was becoming harder and harder to keep up the pretense of ignorance.

John beat her to the punch. “I guess you don’t really care what happens to the Abendsens.”

Juliana watched, petrified, as he dialed the phone. “Obersturmbannführer Metzger. How is our friend the troubadour doing today?” He stretched the spiral cord and began to rock in the seat. “And Mrs. Abendsen?”

Her hands trembled; fingertips losing sensation with every passing second. 

“I have a request and it will be carried out immediately and effectively.”

She saw without seeing: his shiny jacket buttons. His lips. The desk. Her jittery hands. The phone cord wrapping around his finger, tightening.

“John!” she mouthed. 

“One moment.” He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “Never interrupt –”

“I knew him in another world.”

His eyes widened.

She sat by helpless as the ball rolled away from her side of the net onto his. Having to implicate Tagomi, her stoic but gentle refuge and fervent ally, would wound her heart. But he would understand. She hoped...

He blinked several times in succession when he finally realized the full implications of her admission. But his face soon enough returned to neutral, and he returned to the call.

“Feed them. Something fit for human consumption.” His eyes, a bright mossy green, greeted her like a recently reanimated cartoon villain’s. They locked into hers and refused to let go for the remainder of the call. “Prisoners need their strength.”

 

When he put down the receiver, he wasted no time getting back to the business at hand. “How is that even remotely possible?”

“I didn’t believe it myself until one day, it came to me. In a flash, I was able to recall so much, down to the tiniest details.”

“Another one of your so-called visions?” he asked blandly.

Except she knew they were more than that. To expect him to believe any more would be asking too much.

She nodded. “The very same you claim not to believe in. Tagomi-san once handed me photos of his son, Nori, and wife, Michiko. They both died sometime during the war. Almost immediately my mind was inundated with all these memories, as if triggered by the photos themselves. They had _wu_. Certain parts came to the forefront.”

This was getting ridiculous. “ _Wu?_ ”

“It means that great pain and suffering was experienced by the object’s owner. It’s a spiritual thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“If you hold onto the object it can help you focus your mind enough to…”

She didn’t want to say it.

“To what? Spit it out, Miss Crain.”

“To travel.”

John’s mouth gaped open. When she saw he was not likely to recover soon, she furthered her explanation:

“The night Trudy was shot, I was wearing this gold heart-shaped necklace Frank crafted for me. I left it on my jewelry stand for him to find so he would know I had gone off to the Neutral Zone. Soon after his sister, niece and nephew were executed by the Kempetai. By sheer chance Tagomi found my necklace lying in the street. He found that it contained considerable _wu_ , so he kept it on his desk and would use it to comfort himself when the loneliness became too overwhelming, a means by which he could escape from his troubles.

“I don’t follow.”

“Don’t you remember  _T_ _he_ _Wizard of Oz_? When you long to be somewhere better than where you are now, you dream about it. What about if, in that somewhere, beyond you, beyond me, the people you loved but couldn’t reach were waiting for you?”

“I’m not buying this drivel.”

Juliana persisted. “What if you _were_ able to reach them?”

What, over the fucking rainbow? “Dorothy wasn’t holding onto anything.”

“Except for her longing to be home, with her loved ones.” At this John rolled his eyes and groaned aloud.

“Did you show Helen that film?”

Now she was being downright intrusive. “What did I say about mentioning my family?” There was that biting edge to his voice that called to mind what he was truly capable of.

She looked at him expectantly. He relented. “No, I haven’t shown it to her.”

“Why not?”

“Too risky. Besides, it’s not real. I couldn’t do that to her. She still believes Thomas is…out there.”

“And what if he is?”

“What did I tell you about peddling false hope?”

“But you wouldn’t be lying.”

“You have no proof.”

“That film is proof he is alive somewhere.”

“It is _not_ proof of anything!”

And yet the truth was being cemented into place, one brick of remembrance at a time.

“Well what about that film with the bomb?”

“Which one?” There were so many to choose from.

“The hydrogen bomb, of course, in the Marshall Islands.”

John blanched, thunderstruck, barely able to rein in his utter astonishment. “What do you know about that?”

“Does it matter?”

“In this instance, yes it does.”

She joined her hands over her crossed knee. The game was not over.

Tagomi had told John he retrieved the film from his son. The hairs at the nape of his neck prickled.

His _dead_ son.

“You’re lying.”

She shook her head slowly. It aggravated him, seeing how much she enjoyed eking this out. He didn’t want to believe that the same film that ultimately saved the world from certain annihilation was passed along by none other than Juliana Crain.

“Now did that film seem like something Hawthorne could just splice together on a lazy afternoon?”

“Well no, but –”

“I assure you it was most definitely real. We were on the verge of a nuclear crisis in that world, too, only against the Soviets. Which is why Tagomi asked for the film, as proof something like that should never transpire in our reality.”

John knit his eyebrows together, still unable to process her earth-shattering disclosure. “ _You_ gave it to him?”

She shrugged.

His eyes dropped to his desk as he shook his head. “But how could you have _physically_ handed off top-secret government footage to Tagomi, unless…”

Juliana held her breath. There it was. The snare trap with its ravenous open jaws. She had eluded the barbed wire and blindly walked right into it.

“Unless you’re a traveler yourself.” He seemed immensely pleased with himself, that sly mocking grin exuding pleasure at her distress. The unexpected glimpse of his perfect teeth made it all the more maddening.

Yes, he must _really_ be reveling in this.

“Unbeknownst to you, Miss Crain, I witnessed the signs of impending travel firsthand.” This was news to her, but nowhere in the vicinity of mind-blowing.

“One moment we were conversing and the next she vanished before my eyes,” he continued, undeterred. “A courier. She happened to be carrying that film, too.”

He nodded towards the projector. “Right before she disappeared, all the lab equipment started to shake, the electricity short-circuited. She just faded into obscurity, shackles and all.” He smirked. “But we’ll catch her again. We always do.”

Juliana started clawing her nails into her thighs.

John ignored her increasing panic. He was easing back into his role. Though a far cry from that transcendent feeling the roses induced, his black armor of authority made him feel almost invincible, destined to maintain order and dole out punishment for the non-compliant. He excelled at ripping out confessions and generally terrifying subversives by his demeanor alone.

Kindness and compassion aside, Juliana was guilty of multiple charges of murder. She should be alone in her cell, huddled in the corner of her cot, contemplating her last night on earth, not seated across from him enjoying his generosity. He told himself he had grown too fond of her fear to want to release her; he really had just grown too fond of the untamed woman herself.

“Tagomi is a courier. And I know you’ve been working with him.”

“It’s not what you think.”

He pointed at her rather gleefully. “You _have_ been travelling. And quite extensively. I always knew you had it in you to get up and fly away.”

“You’ve got it all wrong!”

“Then by all means, correct me.”

John waited with bated breath yet poised by default to refute whatever followed.

“Our world is not Tagomi’s world of origin. In _this_ world, his wife and son are dead. But there is at least one where it’s clear that the Allies prevailed, just as _The Grasshopper Lies Heavy_ showed. And in one of these worlds, instead of his family, Tagomi-san had…”

Juliana turned her head away, clearly affected.

His second cigarette of the day had been biding its time collecting ash; it fell in a clump onto the polished wooden surface. As John swiftly knocked the powdery substance into a hidden wastepaper basket with the steno pad, a forgotten thought resurfaced: Dr. Mengele informed him that Fatima Hassan possessed the same appearance, down to the fingerprints and evidence of hyperpigmentation he kept shielded in glass, of the woman who had suffered a fatal reaction to one of his sinister medical experiments…

Tagomi was very likely _not_ of this world.

He allowed a rare moment of candor to breach his fog of doubt. “He died.”

She nodded, hunching her shoulders, hugging herself for comfort. “So when he requested that film from the version of me in his old world, he was but a visitor from ours.”

This must be what enabled Tagomi to retrieve the film to give to Kido, who then flew all the way from San Francisco to New York during a travel ban to watch the unnatural catastrophe unfold in secret.

“Like Thomas, Nori had died…in this world. But in another, he and I were married with a child. I know because I’ve been there myself.

Before John had the chance to make his disbelief apparent, Juliana had a brief memory of Nori lifting their infant son from his crib and bouncing him in his arms. John had by now recognized how she appeared when entering into that temporary state – the creased brows, scrunched up eyes, hands massaging her temples.

As she reemerged from her state, an enchanting serenity lent a splendid glow to her face, despite the absence of light. Tears clouded her vision and she had to compose herself due to the sudden swell of emotion those memories of Nori evoked. At one point she started laughing.

John regarded her silently. Was this another indication of her duplicity? It never hurt to prod a tad further. Just in case.

“You knew him? His…son...” He had to grit his teeth to produce those last two words without his voice cracking.

“We had a baby boy together.” John’s lips turned up minutely before training them back into a slightly downturned line.

“Really?” He could never imagine Juliana Crain as someone’s wife or mother. She was far too independent. The things that woman would teach her offspring! But he supposed anything was possible. Elsewhere.

“Yeah.” Her eyes were wistful as she smiled. “The cherry blossom trees were all over the backyard. So many petals strewn on the grass in the summertime we would have to rake them into piles like leaves. And the sweetness that pervaded the air reminded me, in that moment, that I was once somewhere very significant. It really moved me. And I knew right then it was all true.”

“And scent, as they say, is a powerful instigator for memories,” he added. “Magnetic in a way.”

And was he ever drawn to her today. Helen was still out there, far from the home they shared, but for some reason he was able to compartmentalize the disparate relationships. Even if the other woman in question was Juliana Crain.

John absentmindedly smoothed his desk, contemplating whether he should clear it off with his hands or his arms. John couldn’t get a grip on these intrusive feelings. The befuddling attraction, despite all the trouble she’d caused. He sighed and brushed his hand through his shorn curls. Maybe it was his id kicking him in the groin after all.

 

His curiosity, like hers, got the better of him. "Did Nori ever appear in the films?”

“Not that I’ve seen. But Thomas is. John, you’ve got to believe me - that footage of you two – it’s all real. That’s you. That’s your son.”

“That may be Thomas on that screen, but that buffoon is nothing like me. Besides, I’m right here. In the flesh.”

“Alive or dead, we all have identities on other planes. Same birthdays, but divergent life paths.”

“But he _is_ out there?”

“Other incarnations of Thomas, certainly, but not the same boy you raised. It’s highly possible his personality is nothing like the Thomas you knew.”

“You’re saying if I just close my eyes and hold onto something containing _wu_ long enough, I’ll be reunited with Thomas?”

She could tear out her hair for concerning herself with the tragic figure of John Smith, grieving father. Her empathy reasserted itself though she’d sequestered it from those she deemed unworthy of calming reassurance. After the many lives he’d destroyed during his tenure as a sycophant for the criminally insane, John Smith didn’t deserve one more glimpse of Thomas.

If this man required honesty, how could she refuse on his account?

“In theory.” His eyes lit up. “But I’m afraid won’t work for you.”

The great green orbs clouded over, hazy with disappointment.

“Why not?”

“For one, Tagomi-san is a deeply spiritual man. He studies the _I-Ching_. Keeps a shrine to his deceased family. Meditates over them daily. He practices a very serene, simplistic lifestyle outside of his position in the government. Your personalities couldn’t be any further apart, in almost every respect.”

“Would studying the _I-Ching_ speed up the process?” He was sure Himmler could lend him a copy. If its contents were even remotely esoteric, his library stocked it.

If he wasn’t making more than idle threats on her friends’ lives, she would have fallen out of her chair laughing. “No, John, it doesn’t work like that.”

“What, because I’m a heathen? An American? It can’t be too difficult to toss around some sticks, burn incense and pour over some photographs.” He had plenty of those.

“Divination, John? I thought religion was banned in the Reich. Unless you’ve been peddling falsities yourself.”

“It’s not religion. It’s meditation.”

She wanted to shake him. “Mediation is a form of prayer, John.”

He looked crestfallen but she had yet to divulge the worst of it.

“The bottom line is that you won’t be able to get to Thomas unless the version of yourself in that film dies and leaves a space for you to cross the bounds of space and–”

“What?!”

He felt a migraine coming on. Throbbing, tightening constricting his temples like talons with a ripe egg in its ungentle grip.

“Multiple versions of us exist.”

“Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear several times,” he replied, crossing his arms and bouncing his leg under the desk.

“But people can’t exist simultaneously in the same universe. It’s impossible. One of you has to either die or never have existed in the first place. That’s what makes someone an interdimensional courier.”

“And Tagomi?”

“Tagomi’s family believes he abandoned them. The alternate version of him was not the same man I know. The other was a chronically depressed, alcoholic womanizer. In his family’s reality, Tagomi went off on a bender. But the truth is much grimmer. They’ll never see him again, unless he chooses to cross back over into his other life. It’s actually quite dangerous to remain in a place you don’t exist. The body can’t handle it.”

Juliana’s mouth had become a tunnel through which syllables linked together like a string of train cars, dragged along by trepidation until they were somersaulting off a cliff, plunging headlong into fate with stunning finality.

Now John sat nearly immobile, staring into nothingness, a subtle buzzing in his right ear, unable to blink or really comprehend much anymore. He would sit here for hours if he could, entranced by her edification, but he was compelled to return to headquarters. Ideally, Goebbels would have called in from Berlin, as opposed to local headquarters, and he would arrive fashionably late – the Minister of Propaganda had built up quite the reputation for tardiness.

John would also be expected to provide some sort of explanation for his spur-of-the-moment decision to remove a long-sought-after international fugitive from her jail cell to use for his own debauched purposes, as well as for any subsequent discoveries made during the duration of her stay at his Midtown penthouse.

Then there was the risk of being stripped of his position for ‘willful perversion,’ like that precocious filmmaker Nicole Dörmer. Most of their activities would probably make only the more traditional, conservative Nazis’ ears burn, but unlike Nicole he wasn’t a German national and he very much doubted a simple reeducation would be in the cards for him.

“Then you admit Mr. Tagomi is a courier.”

“Yes, but only that one time, and with good cause.”

Juliana had given him so much to consider, and his sleep-deprived, still mildly anxiety-addled brain was striving mightily to compare her confession to what he already understood about travelling. As such, he wasn’t altogether sure he could officially disclose her testimony yet, if at all. He wasn’t sure he wanted the Reich to be privy to intelligence that might benefit his personal agenda to be free from their hold over him.

And perhaps, it could help lead him to Thomas.

“So, it wasn’t really you in that alternate reality Tagomi returned to?”

“No, but –”

“Tagomi is a traveler,” he replied, staring at his large, pale hands. “What else are you hiding from me about him?”

She stroked the side of her neck; John’s Adam’s apple bobbed instinctively. “Nothing.”

Of course, knowing that Tagomi kept all the films provided by Lemuel Washington hidden, save the one Hawthorne kept out of necessity; she had no choice but to rely on falsehood. Something she was loathe to do. But she’d said far too much already.

“Are you absolutely certain you’re not leaving anything out?”

“Tagomi-san is a noble, highly conscientious man of great feeling. He wants nothing to do with your nefarious scheming. His believes working towards amity is the only rational way for the JPS and GNR to coexist.”

He studied his fingernails as if they were somehow less than immaculate. “Mr. Tagomi was particularly adamant that our empires could achieve peace. But at this point, it’s nothing more than a pipe dream.” Himmler made sure that when he rejected the Jap’s terms of compromise, as well as Tagomi’s personal assurance they weren’t seeking to attack the GNR, he did so _categorically._

The Reichsfürher tried to remind him of their fundamental untrustworthiness. But John knew Tagomi, unlike himself, was a man of his word.

Juliana was pleased their conversation had finally started shifting away from Tagomi. Yet the transition was taking too long for her liking.

“In another film, Joe Blake put a bullet in my forehead. Before he blew his own brains out.”

 

She said this with such blunt affect John instantly recoiled in horror. He never came across a film that depicted such graphic imagery. How could something like that be construed as propaganda? His mind was thick with confusion.

“He tried to off me in San Francisco, remember? _Junior Trade Attaché_. Bravo, Reichsmarschall.”

“But you see, I’m not responsible for that particular turn of events. You must learn to place blame where blame is due.”

Her hands sucked into fists, attempting to stem an eruption of unbridled rage. “Oh, but didn’t you know how much he admired you? Of course you did. So to show your appreciation, you sent him to his death just as surely as you sent those volunteers to theirs. Lambs to the slaughter.”

His heart lurched. Thomas, too – his burden to bear for the rest of his days. As for Joe, the wounds had barely begun to scab over. He swung the conversation back to another, less painful, point of contention.

“Die Nubenwalt is Dr. Mengele’s brainchild, which, being in its infancy, still faces the occasional hiccup. But we’ll get there.”

She abruptly rose to her feet and pounded her bandaged fist on his desk, distracting him from lighting his second cigarette of the morning. “That machine is an abomination to humanity! What’s the point of saving the world with a film only to destroy it by other means? You fucking hypocrite!”

“Sit down, Miss Crain.”

Her hands molded themselves to the desk, pressing until her fingertips turned white. Her breath came in rapid bursts. Her eyes roved to the right. The gun case. “Go to hell.”

He rounded the desk and stood looming above her. As he did so his eyes skimmed over the length of her dress, noting the pinpoint-sized polka dots; pearlescent buttons stopping just above her tiny girlish waist. His pulse began to accelerate. He itched to pluck them out of their holes one by one until her body was bared for his perusal. He began fumbling with something in the pocket.

“Have you forgotten where you are, Miss Crain?” After all, he had welcomed her to Hades with wine. And a bath. And…and…

“You’re getting sidetracked. I need for you to put your anger aside and focus.” This woman was really beginning to agitate him. Just because he was wide awake did not mean he wasn’t skirting the edge of sanity.

She backed up just barely, shaking with rapidly expanding indignation. “Do you really want to be the architect of such destruction? Do you get a kick out of allowing truckload after truckload of innocent civilians to perish, all for the sake of power? Power is the epitome evil. You make me fucking sick!" she spat.

John stalked closer. The jutting, clean-shaven jawline emitted a verdant, smoky aroma that teased her nostrils. Her nipples hardened through her brassier. Despite him being outfitted in his full uniform – and perhaps, she realized in disgust, because of it – his blatant masculinity enthralled her.

He suddenly gripped her chin, dropped his voice a register: “I make you come like a fountain.” Juliana gasped at his rough touch and unexpectedly hot-blooded words. “Sit down, hmm?”

She yanked herself from his hand and lowered herself to the chair, stubby nails frantically digging through nerve-damp palms, simmering with suppressed fury.

The old Reichsmarschall had returned – the one who met her in the foyer with a gaze that was part tiger, part serpent, part steel-eyed eagle. Ever insatiable, persistently scouting for his next meal.

John couldn’t help but provoke her still. “Why do this to yourself, Juliana? You could have had a decent life, but you threw it away, all for the sake of upholding these short-sighted convictions.”

He was baiting her. But she wouldn’t bite.

“My sister pushed the canister containing _The Grasshopper Lies Heavy_ into my hands, quite insistently, and begged me to bring it to the Resistance so they could pass it along to the Man in the High Castle. Not a minute later, Inspector Kido shot her in cold blood. I was just around the corner.”

She shivered.

John propped himself against the front of the desk, absorbing all he could, but his eyes, as always, sought to unravel her from within; to siphon up all her secrets. He was so tired of all the shrouded honesty, so he let her continue unabated.

“Right before Trudy died she told me that she’d discovered the reason for everything. At the time I didn’t understand.” Juliana stared into him unflinchingly. “But now...now I understand all too well.”

His eyes darted to the side again, a tell.

Doubt. Annoyance.

Guilt?

“The last thing I intended was to join up with the Resistance, but after a while I had no choice. Some of them are no better than the regimes they’re trying to topple. And always looking for new recruits, fresh blood. I sought them out and they tried to kill me for giving Joe the first film. I escaped to the GNR and ended up back in the lion’s den. Again, they tried to murder me for retribution."

She started to tear up. “I was forced to shoot my little sister’s father.” Tears slid down her cheeks, unapologetically.

John averted his eyes and handed her his handkerchief. Their fingers brushed briefly as she grabbed for it, igniting rapid-fire sparks of unquenched desire.

“Well,” he replied, “you must have had an awfully good reason for committing such a heinous crime.” He paused. “Did you like George Dixon?”

“He was nice for the most part, but too hardened by his chosen way of life for me to ever feel truly at ease. Still, he was practically family. My father’s and step-father’s best friend.”

John stared at her with such intensity it caused her pulse to bang against her throat. He refused to let her off the hook so easily. The fucking martyr trap. Her modus operandi. The broken-winged bird was running out of sorrowful melodies.

He inclined his head. “But why kill him? It seemed rather personal.”

“It wasn’t.”

Juliana shrugged miserably and turned towards the sickening portrait of John and Thomas in military dress, back in its position on the wall next to the desk. “It’s pointless to dredge up now.”

“I assure you it’s not. Come on, tell me. You did us all a favor by offing him, you know. Impersonating a Nazi officer? That’s treason. How did he get the uniform in the first place? Murder. All told, that should earn you a nice reward.” She shuddered at his well-timed wink. He finally noticed what she had been studying so intently. He shoved both hands in his pockets and sighed.

“You know, I often wonder what could have become of him. Would he have followed in my footsteps? Given my rank, almost certainly. He’d follow me to the ends of the earth if he thought it would make me proud. Look at Joe and his father.”

She stiffened. “They never had a chance. Joe and Thomas were but two more casualties of an egomaniac’s delusional notion of an exclusive utopia…”

“Don’t speak ill of the Führer,” he warned.

She crumpled up the handkerchief and threw it down on the desk.

“I’ll _speak ill_ all I want!” she cried, hurling his own words back at him.

He looked mutinous at her fury. “It’s not my homeland,” she continued, bending her body towards him.

He locked into the winding ice crystal maze of her eyes. How could they be at once so sensual, so angelic, and so very, very treacherous?

“And what were you just doing in front of the window with me, John?”

He tightened his grip around the collar in his pocket.

“Don’t you have a single honorable bone in your body? I’m not just speaking about your pseudo-devotion to the Reichsführer, either.”

His eyebrows lowered. “Self-serving prick,” she added under her breath. But as always, John heard.

“Juliana…” His voice. Her name on his pleasingly firm lips, admitting his vulnerability. He held his jaw taut, stern. Another warning.

“You go look in the mirror, John Smith, right in the eyes, and tell yourself – after everything I’ve told you, everything you’ve seen –  that you fully believe in the Reich. Or deny it. I know you’re just dying to.”

John frowned, nostrils twitching. The impudence of her!

“You told me yourself you needed to find a way out of this way of life.”

He squinted. “What? When?”

“When I was lying down in the living room.”

“You must have been dreaming.”

“I was never asleep.”

John bit down on his inner cheek until it left a swollen imprint. He started tapping one thumb over the other as he laughed without even a hint of a smile.

“How stupid of me. Of course you weren’t.”

He knew he was hovering right at the precipice. The wheels in his head cranked at warp speed.

Juliana regarded him with a strange glint in her eye.

He lifted his cuff and checked his watch, never really ascertaining the time.

“My, but you’re slipping. _Reichsmarschall_.”

“I would rather you not call me that,” he growled.

Juliana balked. “But that’s your title….Reichsmarschall.”

The corners of her mouth were just about to curve into an infuriating, canary-eating grin, when John reached for her, somewhat forcefully. The instant he went to grab her arm, Juliana manuevered her hand so that it wrapped around his wrist, then she pushed it towards him with a slight twist. As John let out a pathetic wince, she rushed for the door. It opened about six inches before - 

_SLAM!_

With a grunt he yanked her back bodily, spun her around and pushed her against the door. Out of his mind with lust, he took both hands in one fist and raised them over her head. She tried to wriggle out from beneath his unyielding grip, but that only made him tighten his hold. Her bounding pulse battering against his palm, fierce and unafraid. Their scents comingling, undoing their separate defenses. 

John's dark-clad figure moved into her space until he practically hovered, so close his jangling medals caught on the cashmere covering her nipple. Juliana squirmed but it only heightened her arousal; knowing he had trapped her, wondering how he wanted her to serve him this time, or if he wanted to explore her with his mouth. 

He caressed her with the most beautiful eyes she had ever encountered on a man - matcha green with flecks of amber and lashes the shade of dark chocolate - and stroked a finger down the side of her cheek, deepening her blush. Totally silent except for a tic at the corner of his lip.

The door rattled in its frame as she bucked against him. His cock grew rigid and strained against his trousers, yearning for the feel of her wet mouth.

And elsewhere.

“Get the _fuck_ off of me, John!” 

“She used my name...she gets a prize,” he slurred into her neck, nudging her hair away from her ear with his free hand.

“I thought you hated games.”

He blew at the shell of her ear, sliding his thumb across her lovely throat. “Rule number one of being a guest in my home, Miss Crain: Never trust a Nazi.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I went there. And there. And there. There's always a reason for my madness. 
> 
> Good luck with those sticks, John. Maybe Himmler will teach you?
> 
> The I-Ching is also known as "Book of Changes," and here are a couple places were you can learn the proper way to consult the oracle:
> 
> 1\. Chinafile.com/library/nyrb-china-archive/what-i-ching  
> 2\. ichingonline.net
> 
> Thank you for reading!!!


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